


Arkuwar

by assuwatar



Series: Moon and Sun [3]
Category: Hittite kingdom
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Cute Kids, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, POV Antagonist, POV Multiple, Sexual Content, oh boy where do i start, slow burn descent into hell, sometimes it's cute too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-08-24 22:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16649449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assuwatar/pseuds/assuwatar
Summary: June 24th, 1312 BC: the people of Ḫatti look up to see the sun vanish from the sky. The Tawananna, Muršili's Babylonian stepmother, knows this heralds the king's death. In the wake of this omen that seems more and more likely to become true, Muršili and Gaššulawiya struggle to uphold their ideals of mercy in the face of gods - and mortals - bent more than ever on ruthlessness.





	1. First tablet

In my dream, Ḫebat of Kummanni stands with her arms stretched wide, and her head touches the sky.

I kneel down as close to her as I dare, mouthing her praise. All around me, creatures are scuttling forward, first lizards and field mice, then dogs and wolves, and then men and women from every land. Ḫebat calls them to her in a voice I can’t hear. I stand and stumble after them, head bowed. Her eyes are too bright for me to look into. In front of me, the creatures vanish into her glimmering body, whispering, a thousand voices saying the same word in a thousand tongues – mother. Everything in me longs to follow them. I reach out, grasp at her gold-woven dress.

She lifts my hand away.

‘Not you,’ she says, and I lurch out of the dream.

Blinking, trying to make sense of where I am, my eyes finally focus on the ceiling of my bedchamber in Ḫattuša. A breathing that isn’t my own comes from next to me. I close my eyes again and lose myself in it – in her. Forget the dream for now. It will be back tomorrow. But this moment with Gaššulawiya is a blessing I will only have once.

The mattress rustles as she stirs and edges closer to me. Her body is warm against mine, and my mind drifts back to the night we shared, the kisses we left on each other’s skin, the familiar paths our fingers traced, the way we clasped each other, almost desperate. As if we could entwine ourselves so closely that nothing could break us apart, not even summer. Even now, I want to believe it. Maybe the campaign season can be kept at bay if I just lie here with Gaššulawiya, keep my eyes closed.

She runs a finger along the side of my face.

‘You had a dream.’

I open my eyes and give her a small smile. ‘You know me too well.’

‘Was it Ḫebat again?’

I nod. Gaššulawiya brushes my tangled hair out of my face, then lets her hand rest against my chest.

‘We could go straight to her,’ she says. ‘Your generals could take care of the war against Azzi-Ḫayaša. You don’t need to fight this time.’

I know what she means, and just now, everything in me wants to agree – if we appease Ḫebat now, give her the festival in Kizzuwatna she’s been holding against me, we could steal another month or two together. But my advisors were clear on the matter. Reluctantly, I shake my head.

‘The men have already been fighting without me for half a month. They need to see me on the battlefield.’

Gaššulawiya lets out a small breath and says nothing. I raise my hand to my chest and interlace my fingers with hers.

‘We’ll see each other again before long. I’ll come to Kizzuwatna as soon as I can. I promise.’

‘I know.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I’ll still miss you.’

‘So will I.’

I lean over and kiss her on the lips. She opens her mouth, pressing her naked body against mine. I want to run my hands over it, to let passion overcome us again, but we don’t have time. The sun is already rising, and I want to see the children before I go. Gently, I break away.

We walk to the children’s bedchamber together, without talking much. Ḫalpašulupi is the first to see us: he drops the shoes he was putting on and runs straight for me, wrapping his little arms around my waist. I stroke his hair – forest-brown, like his mother’s – as he, too, mumbles that he’ll miss me.

‘Will you bring us something back?’ he asks.

I look down into his eyes. ‘What would you want?’

‘Something special,’ pipes up Maššanauzzi from the stool where a palace girl is brushing her hair. ‘Something you can only get in Azzaiša.’

‘Azzi-Ḫayaša,’ says Muwatalli. He’s standing a few steps away, waiting for Ḫalpašulupi to finish his hug so he can have his turn. I hold out a hand to him. My arms are big enough for two.

‘I’ll see what I can find,’ I say as my second son cuddles up to me. ‘All depends on how successful the campaign is.’

Ḫalpašulupi breaks away from me. ‘It’s easy, _atta_ ,’ he says and takes up a fighting stance, the only one he’s mastered so far. ‘You stab the king like this –’ he swishes an arm forward – ‘and like this, and then you stand over him and tell him to make a treaty with you, and then he says yes and he gives you lots of gold and silver.’ He opens his arms, as if it was obvious. ‘And then you come home.’

Gaššulawiya, next to me, laughs softly. She bends down to pick up our smallest child, quiet little Ḫattušili, who nestles his head against her shoulder and goes back to sucking his thumb. She lifts him up to me so I can kiss his forehead.

‘And then you come home,’ she whispers so that only I can hear, her dark eyes serious now.

I pull her close. ‘Pray to Ḫebat of Kummanni,’ I whisper back. ‘The sooner she lets me have victory, the sooner we can meet in Kizzuwatna to celebrate her festival.’

I hold her for as long as I can before Ḫattušili starts to squirm between us. When I pull back, Maššanauzzi skips over to squeeze my hand.

‘Bye, _atta_ ,’ she says. ‘Don’t forget to be good.’

Behind her, one of the palace girls covers a smile with her hand; it must be her advice my daughter is repeating. Still, she’s right. I bow my head.

‘I can promise you that,’ I tell Maššanauzzi. ‘I will always be as good as I can.’

*

Though I’ve grown used to it, it still tugs at my insides to watch Muršili leave again. I stand on the steps as his chariot pulls out of the gates, and when I’m sure the palace girls aren’t listening, I mouth a prayer to the Moongod to keep him safe. The Gašga words are light and familiar on my tongue, though I’m having more and more trouble remembering them. I think back to my last memories of Gašula. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

As my prayer draws to an end, the gates close behind Muršili’s chariot. I turn away. I would’ve followed him if I could, given up these perfumed baths and this purple embroidery to live with him in his strongholds, like I did eight years ago – like I kept doing until two years ago, the summer before Ḫattušili was born. But I can’t afford the risk now. My littlest one falls sick too easily to travel, and I won’t leave him behind. I look up to the top of the steps, where another silhouette is standing.

Not with her watching us like a bird of prey.

The Tawananna’s eyes meet mine, and she gives me her usual simper, courteous and cold. I can feel her contempt from here. ‘Muršili’s Gašga swine,’ she calls me when she thinks I can’t hear, and the detachment in her voice brings back flashes of how the priests of the Stone House used to talk about me. Like I’m nothing. Like she can play with me however she wants, because regardless of my marriage, she’s still the Great Queen, and I’m just an enemy girl her stepson took pity on.

I glare back at her. Let her try. I’m used to it. But she will not lay a finger on my children, or she will learn what it truly means for me to be a Gašga.

Walking past her, I make my way back inside. I keep myself busy for the rest of the day, taking Maššanauzzi and Ḫattušili for a walk in the hills outside the city while the older boys are with the schoolmaster, then slipping out on my own once they’re in bed. The next days go by slowly: I keep myself out of the Tawananna’s way, she keeps herself out of mine, and I count the nights off my fingers until we leave for Kizzuwatna. In the evenings, I watch the Moongod rise in the sky. I think of Muršili doing the same, by his campfire in the countryside. He must be close to Azzi-Ḫayaša by now.

The morning after the Moongod’s face turns black, the schoolmaster is taken sick, and I find myself with two excited boys on my hands. Since the day is bright and warm, I take them down to the courtyard, Maššanauzzi and Ḫattušili tagging along. The children launch into a game immediately, Ḫalpašulupi pulling out his wooden sword and swinging it at Muwatalli, then Maššanauzzi who runs to join in. She ducks and tries to grab his arms.

‘Die, man of Azzaiša,’ she half shrieks, half giggles. ‘Die, die, die!’

‘You’re the one from Azzi-Ḫayaša,’ Ḫalpašulupi retorts as he avoids her grasp. ‘I’m the Sun.’

‘No, I want to be the Sun!’ Muwatalli crosses his arms. ‘You always get to be the Sun. It’s my turn.’

‘But I am going to be the Sun.’ Ḫalpašulupi takes up a wobbly fighting position and points his sword at his brother. Muwatalli butts it away. ‘ _Atta_ said so. And anyway, you didn’t even bring anything to fight with.’

‘Well I don’t need anything,’ Maššanauzzi says and lunges forward again. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Muwatalli follows, and between them they manage to tackle their older brother. Muwatalli rips the sword out of his hand and points it at Ḫalpašulupi’s chest. He grins.

‘Now I’m the Sun.’

‘No, you’re not.’ Ḫalpašulupi glances up. ‘The Sungoddess doesn’t even want you. See? She was brighter before.’

I follow his gaze. He’s right: though the sky is clear, it seems dimmer than it was when we came out. Muwatalli nudges his brother with the tip of the sword.

‘She’s only hiding her face because you’re embarrassing her.’

‘You are.’

‘No, you.’

‘Yeah, you,’ Maššanauzzi repeats and sticks her tongue out.

I listen to them bicker absent-mindedly, my eyes still on the sky. Ḫattušili is fussing on my knees. I sit him more comfortably, then look back up. For a reason I don’t understand, my chest feels tight. Something is strange. The sun isn’t just veiled. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky for it to hide behind.

It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just a haze. The sun doesn’t grow sickly, even less at midday. I turn back to the children as their play-fighting continues. Muwatalli is carrying his sister on his back now, pretending to be a chariot. She waves the sword above her head and Ḫalpašulupi runs under it, then tries to pull her down. I should tell them to be careful – she’s smaller than them, after all. I open my mouth.

The words die in my throat.

It’s not a haze. The light is wrong, much too wrong.

Propping Ḫattušili up against my shoulder, I stand up.

‘Children, stop.’

Ḫalpašulupi spins around, eyebrows drawn together. ‘But we didn’t do –’

‘I said stop.’

My voice is sharp. Ḫalpašulupi lowers his head, and Muwatalli sets his sister back down on the ground. I nod towards the nearest palace wing.

‘Go inside. Now.’

They file away towards the door, and I hurry after them with Ḫattušili. I can see in their faces that they’ve sensed my fear. Ḫalpašulupi reaches for Muwatalli’s hand, then holds out the other to Maššanauzzi. Before I step inside, I look up one last time at the sky. It’s eerily dark.

Then the sun winks, and slowly, it begins to vanish.

My heart stops. At once, my thoughts go to Muršili. What if something has happened to him? The people of Ḫatti call him the son of the Sungoddess. If she dies… I press my lips tightly together to keep the nausea away. Stay calm. Worrying won’t make a difference.

In the corridor, we come across several palace workers hurrying in the opposite direction, and I hand them Ḫattušili and tell them to take the children to their quarters. As soon as they’re out of sight, I kick off my shoes and run for the roof. I climb the stairs two by two. When I emerge into the open air, I’m struck by the cold. The sun is still there, but as I watch, it shrinks into a tiny pinprick of light, then all that’s left is a pale circle around a spot of black. Of emptiness.

All across the land of Ḫatti, it’s dark as night.

*

It takes the Gašga swine some time to notice my presence. When she does, she takes a step back and despite the gloom, I see her shoulders tense. I turn my face back towards the ring of the Sungod. Her discomfort is of no concern to me.

With my eyes, I trace the trajectory of the Sungod in the sky, calculate the time since dawn. I scour the land for any additional omens. Though it’s been more than twenty-five years now, the tablets I used to read in Karduniaš, and the teachings of the priests, are burned into my memory. I’ve always been good at recalling this kind of information. Maybe that’s why my father sent me, not another of my sisters, to marry the king of Ḫatti – because he knew a keen mind is what makes a good queen.

In any case, I know what the omen means.

I glance over to the Gašga swine, who is still standing with her shoulders drawn up and staring at the Sungod. Her hands are curled into fists, as if she’s trying to hold back her fear. I purse my lips. It’s such a strange contrast. There she is, a girl from a land of swineherds and linen weavers, there in the light of something so rare, so full of meaning in ways she cannot understand.

‘Have you lived to see this before?’ I ask. ‘I imagine not.’

She turns her face towards me, but other than that she is still. The ring of light burns on above us.

‘Is it a sign?’ she breathes at last.

‘Of course it’s a sign.’ I wrinkle my nose. In Karduniaš, even a child would know that.

‘Tell me what it is.’

Her words are straightforward, as they often are, and tainted with her northern lilt. Not for the first time, I wonder how the boy came to love her. She’s nothing more than the captives he drives back to Ḫattuša at the end of each summer. She’s not unattractive, though there are many palace girls prettier than her, but she can barely read, let alone understand the intricacies of the world, the stars, the many lands and the kings that govern them. Her questions are not worthy of her position. Ḫatti deserves – and needs – more than this naive girl and the child she calls her husband.

My eyes drift back to the sky. The gods know it. I’ve long tried to tell my stepson kingship doesn’t rest on them alone, but sometimes, there’s no other way for a matter to go than through them. This matter has gone on for long enough. This midday night proves it.

Things must, and will, change.

The circle of light is filling again, and like water, the darkness drains away. I speak without looking at the Gašga swine. There’s no need.

‘The Sungod vanishes when the gods are angry with the king,’ I tell her. ‘The omen is clear.’

I pause as she takes in a breath. She’s guessed what I’m going to say. I say it anyway. Straightforwardly, like she would.

‘Muršili will die.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> ‘Arkuwar’ is the Hittite word for ‘prayer’ or ‘plea’. It's etymologically related to English ‘argue’.
> 
> ‘Atta’ is the Hittite word for ‘father’.
> 
> The Hittite queen kept her title as Tawananna and Great Queen even after her consort died, hence why Tawananna Malnigal is still queen despite Muršili being married to Gaššulawiya.
> 
> The children's squabbling over who gets to be the Sun is an allusion to the fact that most of them will, at some point, have a claim to the title: Ḫalpašulupi will be crown prince until his early death, at which point Muwatalli will be crown prince and later inherit the throne, and Ḫattušili, finally, will usurp the throne from Muwatalli's heir.
> 
> Karduniaš (or Karanduniaš, or sometimes Šanḫara) was the name for Babylon in the Late Bronze Age.


	2. Second tablet

The night after the Sungoddess disappears, I hardly sleep. I don’t dare. Though she set bright as always, I spend the night in prayer, my hand wrapped around the amulet I always wear, hoping – begging – she will return in the morning. When the light of dawn trickles over the mountains of the Upper Land, I let out a sigh of relief. She hasn’t abandoned us. Not this time.

Still, my breath is shallow as we ride towards the frontier that morning. My mind keeps returning to the dreams I’ve had of Ḫebat these last two months, the festivals my father promised and never gave, and everything else he left on my shoulders. For the first time in years, my palms feel clammy against the edge of the chariot. Spring after spring, I’ve honoured the gods. Summer after summer, I’ve destroyed the lands that threatened Ḫatti and shown mercy, every single time, towards the innocent. Year after year, I’ve done my best to earn the throne my ancestors left me. Will it never be enough?

I straighten my back and force myself to breathe. I’m letting my fear speak. I will fight for my land in Azzi-Ḫayaša, then I will go to Kizzuwatna to appease Ḫebat and find out what the Sungoddess holds against me. Whatever it is, I will make it right.

I will be the king I promised Gaššulawiya I would be. No matter what.

We reach the rest of the troops four days later, on an afternoon that feels like we’ve walked into a baking oven. My general Nuwanza welcomes me into the shade of a grove beneath a cliff, where he set up his headquarters. Succinctly, he gives me a summary of the fighting that happened in my absence. I pour myself a rhyton of wine and listen. My army has been able to keep the enemy at bay, but the war is stagnating. I will need to show myself on the front line to change the tide. Seeing my sun-patterned chariot will give my men a push of strength, and it will drive terror into the hearts of the men of Azzi-Ḫayaša.

I nod, untroubled. I’m used to leading armies into battle now. I retire to my own tent to rest, and I steel myself for the fighting to come.

For six days, I lead my chariot against the warriors of Azzi-Ḫayaša. As expected, my presence sends a wave of shock through their ranks, and to my relief, the gods fight at my side: by the evening of the sixth day, we’ve reconquered two valleys. That night, I sit by the fires and watch the moon climb above the peaks. A soft breeze blows, drying my freshly washed hair. I breathe in. After the clang of swords and shields, this feels like a respite.

‘Your Sun?’

I turn around. A footman is standing a few steps away, panting, as if he hurried here. He points towards the edge of the camp.

‘A messenger has arrived from Ḫattuša. He says he must see you urgently.’

I pull myself to my feet. The footman walking ahead of me, I make my way through the camp, towards a lone man standing next to a horse. He didn’t even take a chariot. A budding worry impels me faster forward. For him to have ridden all the way here, on horseback, he must truly bring urgent news.

His legs wobbly from the ride, he bows, then hands me a sealed tablet. I call for the footman to bring over a torch. The light falls onto the seal. My insides twist. It’s Gaššulawiya’s. Trying to keep my hands stable, I break open the clay envelope and pull out the tablet inside. She wrote it herself – I could recognise her deep, widely-spaced wedges anywhere. The signs she uses are simple, but her words lift from the clay clear as ever.

‘The sun gave an omen. The Tawananna says you are going to die because of it. Leave the army in Azzi-Ḫayaša and come to Kizzuwatna. We need to talk.’

I enfold the tablet in my fingers and try to swallow past the lump in my throat. So my stepmother predicted my death. Part of me doesn’t want to believe it, wants to put it down to her usual belittling, but I can’t bring my mind to be convinced. My stepmother’s people have been reading the skies for a thousand years. Their priests have rows of shelves full of omens and their interpretations. ‘Don’t be naive,’ I can almost hear her say. ‘You know I’m right. Why else would the Sungod turn his face away?’

Steadying my voice, I speak to the messenger.

‘Sleep among us tonight. Tomorrow you will travel back to Ḫattuša with a tablet for my wife. I will provide you with a fresh horse.’ He bows his head, and I turn to the footman. ‘Find blankets for him, and have some water warmed so he can wash. And give him something to eat. I doubt he’s had much during his journey.’

As the footman leads the messenger away, calling up some of his companions to help him, I return to my tent. In the wavering light of an oil lamp, I rummage among my belongings until I find a stylus, then turn over the tablet and spit on the blank side. It doesn’t take much to soften the clay: my sweaty palms have already done half the work. Squinting so I can see what I’m doing, I write my answer.

‘Thus speaks Muršili, Great King.’ I don’t bother with my titles. ‘I am coming to Kizzuwatna. I will meet you there in one month’s time.’ Just long enough for me to set the campaign here in order, and for both of us to travel down south. I re-read my words. That should suffice for now.

Then, after a moment’s thought, I press the stylus into the clay again. In the small space that’s left, I squeeze a handful of signs.

‘Do not be afraid. I will hold onto life as tightly as I hold onto you.’

It’s as much a reassurance for myself as for her. With a silent prayer, I place the tablet back in its envelope and re-seal it. May the gods keep us both safe until we meet again.

Two days later, I leave for the land of Kizzuwatna.

*

As soon as Muršili’s message arrives, I place the children in the palace girls’ care and ride down to Kizzuwatna with the Tawananna at my side. I have no choice: the festival for Ḫebat will need to be celebrated by the king and queen together, though I wish more with each passing day that it wouldn’t. The Tawananna barely speaks to me, and when she does, her words cut right through me. She wants to reach me where I’m tender, I can tell. Sometimes she almost succeeds. Those evenings, I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest and finger the dagger I fastened underneath my dress. I imagine the Tawananna’s reaction if I drew it out. But of course it would be pointless – her guards would rip me to pieces long before I reached her, because she isn’t naive like Muršili was, and she would smile her cold smile as I die. Instead I glare at her from the other side of the fire, and I repeat to myself that bloodshed isn’t the answer.

The journey is long, and the air gets warmer the further south we go. At last, after more than half a month of travel, we reach the mountains that ring Kizzuwatna. Their slopes are steep and covered in lush green forest, almost blue where the peaks meet the sky. The chariot drivers make us dismount – the path is too difficult for us to ride – and as we cross the pass on foot, I look up. This land is nothing like the rocks and yellowed hills of Ḫattuša, even less like my rugged homeland. I glance towards the Tawananna. She seems unimpressed. She’s probably been here before.

Once in Kizzuwatna, one of the charioteers goes ahead of us to announce our arrival in the town of Kummanni. The Tawananna takes the lead of the rest of the caravan. I stand next to her, my hand on my dagger through my dress. The growing crowd’s eyes glide past me. It’s not me they’ve come to see. Good. I haven’t come for them either.

My heart jolts when I finally catch sight of Muršili, waiting for us in ceremonial clothing in front of the governor’s palace. He helps the Tawananna down from the chariot, then exchanges a few words with her. I don’t listen. I stare at him, follow his every movement. He looks healthy. When he moves around to my side of the chariot and hold out his hand for me to take, I squeeze his palm and don’t let go. His skin is warm. Alive. It strikes me only then how afraid for him I was.

He leads me to the apartments where he’s staying and closes the door. I grasp his other hand. For a long time, we simply stand there, face to face, saying nothing. I run my eyes over his scarlet tunic, his braided hair, his slightly tense jaw, his eyebrows only just furrowed like always when he’s serious. He’s worried, I can see it, but other than that he’s well. The gods haven’t harmed him. Yet.

I want to take him into my arms, to feel him against me, but somehow I can’t move. Instead I meet his grey eyes.

‘Do you think the Tawananna is right?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looks down. ‘I ordered an extispicy as soon as I arrived here. No answers.’

‘And Ḫebat?’

He swallows. ‘She still shows herself in my dreams. She won’t let me touch her.’

I stay quiet. After a drawn-out pause, he looks back at me.

‘Gaššulawiya, what if we were wrong?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if I truly have angered the gods? What if I’m not doing enough? The Sungoddess never sent my father an omen –’

‘No.’ I cut him off before he says it.

He lets out a sigh. ‘I know. I know I shouldn’t be my father. But –’ he lowers his voice, and his forehead creases – ‘I can’t die. If I do, so does Ḫatti. Ḫalpašulupi is far too young to take my place, and he will… Someone will kill him before a year is up, and seize the throne. The land will be filled with bloodshed.’

‘Ruling any other way won’t make it better. You know it.’ My gaze flickers to his side, to the sickle-shaped scar hidden beneath his clothes. ‘If you don’t trade your father’s sins for something else, the Moongod will want your blood.’

With a shudder, he wrestles his hands out of mine. He turns away, sits down on the bed with his elbows on his knees, pinches the bridge of his nose. His lips press hard against each other.

‘Then what am I supposed to do? If I pacify your Moongod, the Sungoddess will have my life. If I don’t, he will.’

I bundle my hands into fists. The warmth of his skin is still on mine.

‘We will find a way.’

He doesn’t answer. I try to move towards him, but my legs are like stone. My thoughts whir in my mind, none of them making sense. All I know is that he needs to live. Not for Ḫatti’s sake – for his own. For mine.

At last, he looks up, and something softens in his face. He stands. Taking me by the shoulders, he pulls me into an embrace. I nestle up against him.

‘I promise I won’t die,’ he breathes. ‘I don’t know how. But you’re right. We’ll survive this. Whatever it takes.’

I nod, feeling his words sink into me. He slips a hand behind my neck and holds my head against his chest.

‘Tomorrow we’ll honour Ḫebat of Kummanni,’ he continues. ‘Hopefully she, at least, will leave me be after that. I will also have a substitution ritual carried out. If that doesn’t work… I don’t know.’

‘But we’ll find a way.’

His clasp tightens.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’ll find a way.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Much of the details about writing a tablet come from my personal experience. In particular, I discovered that sweaty palms can moisten clay the very first time I copied a 4000-year-old tablet - I was so nervous I had to put it down to avoid damaging it :P


	3. Third tablet

When the festival begins the next morning, I hold my head high and scan the faces of the crowd. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of silhouettes blend into each other. My husband secured their land close to thirty years ago, and as long as he ruled, he protected them through his might; now their lives rest in the hands of my stepson. A boy even the gods don’t trust.

I glance at him, sitting next to me and listening to the cultic singers with his chin in his hand. More and more, these days, I find myself thinking of the Sungod’s omen. I never wanted the boy to die – he’s weak and childish, but nothing worse. I always hoped I could instill some sense in him, choke off his sensitivity and teach him what it takes to be king, mould him into the shadow, if nothing more, of what his father was. I swallow a bitter sigh. Had he listened, Ḫatti would be rivalling Mizra by now. Instead, our troops squabble with mountain-dwellers from Azzi-Ḫayaša who sleep with their own sisters.

No, Muršili is not an incapable ruler. But he isn’t enough. Ḫatti needs greatness, and after over eight years of him pulling away from it, the gods have no choice. I, the queen, will have to stand by them in it.

After the performance ends, we walk in procession towards the temple of Ḫebat, and the crowd waits outside the gates as the priests, my stepson and I go into the cella. Two lambs have been readied by the goddess’s statue, and the smell of incense is thick. The priests intone a hymn. Muršili’s lips move silently along with theirs. One of the men steps up to the statue, an iron dagger in his hand. The lambs bleat in fear. Swiftly, he draws the blades along their throats, one after the other, as the hymn grows louder then cuts off abruptly. Blood bubbles down through the gutters in the floor. Before long, the lambs are dead.

Kneeling down, the priest cuts their stomachs open, and an oil lamp is brought over so he can examine their insides. Muršili is completely still now. The priest turns the liver over in his hands, his back to us. He nods, puts the liver back, digs out the other one. He nods again.

‘The goddess is favourable,’ he says.

I can almost feel my stepson’s relief. He lets out his breath, then steels himself again when he sees me look at him. I narrow my eyes. One favourable omen does not mean the kingdom is safe.

His gaze on me, he gestures towards the door.

‘Leave me.’ It’s directed as much at me as at the priests. ‘I wish to pray to the goddess alone.’

Bowing their heads, the priests shuffle out. I follow them. The clamour of the crowd hits my ears, all the louder after the muffled silence of the cella, but I keep my head up as I return to the palace. These are my people. I owe it to them to walk among them, and show them who their queen is.

As I enter the palace, I catch sight of the Gašga swine in the hallway, talking to a man in travel clothes. They fall silent when they see me. The man bows deeply, clasping a small chest inlaid with lapis lazuli to his heart. Her neck stiff, the girl mimics him.

‘Tawananna,’ the man says. ‘I was sent by the Great King’s brother, Šarri-Kušuḫ, king in Kargamiš. He is on his way here to take part in the festival. He heard word you were celebrating it, and he has his own petitions for the goddess.’

And, no doubt, discussions he wants to have with his brother. I nod. ‘Very well. I will inform the Great King, and tell the governor to prepare rooms for Šarri-Kušuḫ and his retinue. Anything else?’

The man holds out the chest. ‘He sends you silver from Aštata. He asks that the great family dedicate it to Išḫara on his behalf, and on behalf of his land. It is oppressed by the plague, Tawananna.’

I purse my lips. The plague died down years ago in the Upper Land, but it never left the south, though my stepson prayed to Telepinu and his Sungoddess of Arinna to make it end. To him it was just another matter out of many, one he bestowed on his brothers in Kargamiš and Ḫalpa while he grappled with Gašga swine. He never saw its ravages in Nuḫašše, in Kinza, in Ugarit. I did. I was there when it began, when the prisoners from Mizra brought it into our land and my husband’s soldiers grew feverish, coughed up blood, and died like rats. I witnessed the dwindling of the great, mighty Šuppiluliuma’s strength. His death on the banks of the Purattu river.

I remember how the boy seemed to fall apart when he heard his father had become a god. He could barely hold the jug in his hands as he poured a libation to his soul; his brothers had to steady him. In a way, they never stopped. Almost ten years later, he still stands here, grasping at the threads of a land he can’t weave together, while his brothers hold the line.

I take the chest from the man’s hands.

‘I will offer the silver to Išḫara myself,’ I tell him. ‘The goddess will listen to the prayer of the Tawananna.’

The man thanks me and steps back. As I turn to leave, I catch sight of the Gašga swine. I’d forgotten she was there. I click my tongue at her.

‘Don’t just stay there, girl. Find this man a room so he can rest.’

Without waiting for an answer, I walk away. Outside, the throng is parting at my stepson returns to the palace. I ignore him and make my way towards my apartments.

Yes. It’s time to take this kingdom into stronger hands.

*

I find Gaššulawiya standing on the balcony of our bedchamber, staring out over the palace, her dagger in her fist. I move over to her carefully, so I don’t startle her. I can tell in her face that she’s heard me, but she doesn’t turn to look at me.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

She stays quiet. Her eyes are fixed on my stepmother’s distant figure, visible through the windows of her own apartments, across the courtyard. At last, Gaššulawiya exhales, almost resolutely. She rests her arms on the parapet.

‘Your brother is coming from Kargamiš,’ she says.

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Piyaššili?’

‘Šarri-Kušuḫ. Yes.’

Despite the day’s tension, my lips break into a smile. I haven’t seen my brother in years. Last time we met, I’d only just defeated Arzawa, and we’d promised we would visit each other soon. Our responsibilities decided otherwise. Even so, I’d missed him. Of all my siblings, he was always dearest to me.

‘When will he be here?’

‘In two days. His messenger said he would’ve come earlier, but he was delayed in Ḫalpa.’

In Ḫalpa – so he will have news of my brother Telepinu as well. I prop my elbows up on the parapet, next to Gaššulawiya.

‘I look forward to seeing him.’

She moves closer to me, so that our shoulders brush against each other. I slip my arm around hers. It’s good to have her with me, to know that, no matter what, we’re together in this. She laces her fingers into mine.

‘How was the sacrifice?’

‘Favourable. I’ll sleep in Ḫebat’s temple tonight and see what dreams she sends me. Hopefully they will be favourable too.’

‘Hopefully.’

Her voice is soft. My eyes trace the lines of her silhouette, her straight eyebrows, her sweet lips, her hair she never ties up, her right hand still clutching the hilt of her dagger. I can’t forget her face when we spoke yesterday – how she insisted I would live, but she couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes. I wish I could promise her more than I did. Give her an answer all the gods judge to be right. Reassure her that no blood will be spilled. The gods know she deserves it – she needs this gentleness, more than anybody else. She has been fighting long enough.

‘I prayed the goddess for you,’ I say.

Her face stays stern.

‘You should pray her for yourself.’

‘I did.’

‘Have you ordered the substitution ritual?’

I nod. ‘The scapegoats are being prepared in the Sungoddess’s temple. I’m sure they will appease her.’ I try to sound confident, even though we both know what underlies it. We need to hear these words out loud.

Gaššulawiya pulls herself against me. She draws my hand to her heart.

‘If I was a goddess,’ she says, ‘all I would ask would be for you to stay the way you are.’

I press my lips against her forehead and keep them there. After some time, she tilts her head up, and her mouth meets mine. Our entwined fingers clasp each other. At first, our kisses are gentle, but it doesn’t take long for them to become more insistent. I break away to cup Gaššulawiya’s chin in my hand.

‘Let’s forget the gods for now,’ I breathe. ‘I only want you.’

Her lips twitch into a smile. Pushing her dagger back into its scabbard, she takes both my hands and we go indoors, away from the palace’s curious eyes. In the shadows of the curtains, I pull her against me again, let my hands run down to her waist this time, kiss the curve of her neck. She bunches the fabric of my robes in her fists, draws it over my shoulders. Her touch against my bare skin makes me shiver. I kiss her harder.

‘Gods, I missed you,’ I let out as she tugs my clothes further down.

She says nothing, only unclips the brooches that fasten her own dress. Outside, people call out, likely applauding a juggler or an acrobat; they don’t matter. The festival doesn’t need me for now. Slipping a hand to the small of Gaššulawiya’s back, lifting up her leg with the other, I lower her onto the bed. She drags me down with her. From her own mouth, my lips make their way down over her chest, her breasts, her stomach soft and scarred from the children she bore me. Her skin rises and falls against me with each breath. We’re alive, I tell myself. We’re alive, and we’re together. Whatever the outside world wants to make of us, this moment is ours alone.

My kisses finally reach the wet spot between her thighs, and she arches her back in response. I keep my eyes locked on hers as I suck on her. Though my own body aches for hers, I take my time, relishing her gasps and the way her fingers dig into my hair when my tongue moves in a way I know she likes. Several times, I almost bring her over the edge, but I withdraw just as I feel her tense. Not yet. Instead I run my hands over her breasts, and I wait for her breathing to slow before I begin again.

The third or fourth time, as I move back down, she clasps me with a shake of her head. She hooks a leg around my waist. Her own hand makes its way down my body, her strokes finding the places where I’m sensitive, and I stifle a grunt. Her hips rise to meet me. Taking hold of them, I spread her legs further open and move inside her.

After drawing out her pleasure for so long, it doesn’t take much for her to quiver and cry out, and then I kiss her forehead and whisper gentle words while her body contracts under mine. Soon her legs wrap around me again, pulling me down. I bury myself inside her, feel the warmth build and build until I can’t hold it back any longer. My breath hitches in my throat. Gaššulawiya tightens her grasp on me, and then it’s my turn to cry out as the fire pulses through me, white-hot and dizzying, and all I can do is let my head fall onto her chest as she rubs my back. I close my eyes. I’m spent, but more than ever in the last two months, I’m happy.

The gods can be angry all they like, right now, we’re one step ahead. We’re alive. And we’re together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Mizra is the Hittite name for Egypt.
> 
> The reference to men of Azzi-Ḫayaša sleeping with their own sisters comes from a treaty between Šuppiluliuma and Ḫuggana of Azzi-Ḫayaša, in which Šuppiluliuma states that while incest is commonplace in Azzi-Ḫayaša, it is strictly forbidden in Ḫatti.
> 
> It's likely that after becoming king in Kargamiš (Carchemish), Piyaššili took on the Hurrian name Šarri-Kušuḫ and no longer used his Hittite name after that. Still, I liked the idea of Muršili referring to him by his childhood name anyway, as a reflection of their closeness.


	4. Fourth tablet

As planned, Muršili leaves me in the evening to sleep in Ḫebat’s temple, though he tells me the next morning he saw no dreams. I manage to convince myself it’s a good sign. She has visited him almost every night since the end of winter; surely, if she still wanted something of him, she wouldn’t shy away.

All day long, he busies himself with the festival, visiting every single temple and praying for his kingdom, for his life, for the children and me. The Tawananna accompanies him to the ceremonies where her presence is required, glistening with jewellery and walking like this land is hers alone. The rest of the time, Muršili coaxes me into coming along at his side. I watch the crowd cautiously as I follow him. They cheer and call his name, and with a smile, he opens his arms as if he could hug them all – my gentle-hearted husband. I know him well enough to sense his worry, but he doesn’t let it show. That night, when we’re alone again, he doesn’t mention his doubts. He only kisses me, insists he will keep doing his best, promises me he will live. I hold him against me and caress his words away.

The contests begin the next morning in the countryside, and Ḫebat’s statue is brought out of the town to watch. Men wrestle and run and shoot their bows and play music in front of her, and Muršili judges it all intently, offering fine weapons and drinking vessels to the best performers. I trace the shape of the dagger at my waist. Even after all these years, the way the men of Ḫatti spar still surprises me. There’s form to it, as if exchanging blows was a ritual in itself. We Gašga just struggle.

At the hottest point of the day, Muršili prescribes a moment’s rest, and together we go for a walk in the hills. We step slowly, talking of nothing much, the sun warming our shoulders. He asks me how the children were when I left them.

‘As usual,’ I tell him. ‘They didn’t want to stay behind. But I’d rather keep them all in Ḫattuša than risk the journey with Ḫattušili.’

And have them travelling with the Tawananna, I think and grit my teeth. The way she addressed me yesterday still cuts into me. I will not have her use my children like she thinks she can use me. Like she has tried to use Muršili ever since he sat on his father’s throne.

I force the thought away.

‘The boys wanted to know when you’d be back,’ I say.

Muršili smiles a little. ‘They’ll be disappointed when they find out I didn’t have time to bring them something from Azzi-Ḫayaša.’

‘They know that’s not what matters most.’

He squeezes my hand. We crest the hill and stop for a moment, looking out over the land of Kizzuwatna. The voices of the festival-goers waft up, muffled, from behind us. Dust billows in the distance.

Muršili lifts a hand to his eyes.

‘Isn’t that a chariot?’

I follow his gaze. He’s right: the dust rises from the wheels of not one, but four chariots, making straight for Kummanni. I squint. I can only just see the men’s silhouettes. They’re dressed in bright colours. They must be from a noble house.

When they get closer, one of them points at us, and the chariots veer in our direction. We scramble down the hill and Muršili brushes the twigs off his robes, trying to look dignified, before lifting a hand at the man travelling in the first chariot. The man waves back and dismounts. He looks familiar, though I can’t put a name to him. Then, as he and Muršili embrace, it comes back to me.

‘May the gods keep you well, Piyaššili,’ Muršili says.

‘And you, brother.’

The king of Kargamiš steps back to bow at me. I stare at him. His face is drawn and his beard is growing long, making him look more like a man of Aššur than of Ḫatti. He seems far older than when I last saw him. He’s not wearing any jewellery either, I notice, and his clothes are no more elaborate than those of his men. A strange feeling coils in my insides.

‘May the gods keep you well, Šarri-Kušuḫ,’ I say, calling him by his throne name.

‘And you, my lady,’ he replies before turning back to Muršili. ‘I have news from Ḫalpa. May we speak?’

With a nod, Muršili leads him along the foot of the hill, away from the chariots, holding out his hand to me so I come along too. We walk in silence for some time. I watch the king of Kargamiš cautiously. The feeling inside me is still there, and growing – I want him to talk, though I’m not sure I want to hear it. At last, he lets out a sigh.

‘I would’ve liked to bring you easier news, but the gods haven’t been kind this summer. The plague has become worse, and Nuḫašše is on the verge of a revolt again. Even Aššur threatens us.’

Muršili’s hand tenses around mine. ‘And Ḫalpa?’

Šarri-Kušuḫ takes in a shaky breath. ‘I’m sorry I have to tell you. Our brother is dead.’

Muršili stops in his tracks. He stares straight ahead, completely still, and I can almost feel the familiar catch in his throat, the anxiety that until recently was almost gone. The anxiety he’s been fighting so hard to keep at bay since the sun gave its omen.

But the gods are cruel. They have always been cruel. Of course they wouldn’t let him rest.

With tears in his own eyes, Šarri-Kušuḫ wraps an arm around his brother’s shoulders. Muršili barely reacts.

‘How did he die?’ His voice is choked.

‘The plague. It came down on him fast, just after I arrived in Ḫalpa. He was dead in three days.’

Muršili nods and rubs a hand across his cheeks. It doesn’t help much.

‘We will need to install his son as king as soon as possible,’ he says. ‘Before Nuḫašše can rise up.’

‘I will take care of Nuḫašše,’ Šarri-Kušuḫ says. ‘You deal with Ḫalpa.’

‘I will. As soon as I’ve appeased the gods here. I will pray about the plague too. And all the rest.’

The king of Kargamiš glances at me, eyebrows drawn together. I look away. Now is not the time to talk about the omen.

Brushing his face again, Muršili straightens up.

‘I have rooms ready for you. Come. We’ll discuss this again once you’ve rested.’

He turns around without meeting our eyes, lets go of my hand and walks back towards the chariots. He calls orders in a more or less steady voice. I know what he’s doing: he’s trying to appear in control. Šarri-Kušuḫ seems to know it too. He buries his hands in his robes and sighs again.

‘Keep an eye on him,’ he says. ‘He would give his own soul if he thought it would protect the kingdom.’

My chest tightens. ‘I know.’

I follow him slowly towards the chariots. I don’t want to return to the festival now, but I don’t have a choice. I clench my fists. It feels like none of us have a choice, these days.

We will survive, I tell myself. We will find a way.

I won’t let myself believe anything else.

*

That night, the first of my stepson’s scapegoats, a bull, is burned on the hills outside Kummanni.

I watch the flames from the balcony of my apartments, lips pursed. It won’t be enough. In seven days, the war captive who serves as his substitute to the upper gods will be set free into the wilderness, alive and untouched. In Karduniaš, we would have burned him too, but the people of Ḫatti believe otherwise. Once the captive is gone, my stepson will put on his royal clothes again. He will think he is cleansed.

He will be wrong.

I tap my fingers against the parapet. No. The price of survival isn’t so low. My little stepson would disagree – as if his hope could change the laws of the gods – but for a kingdom to be great, great sacrifices must be made. Mortals were born from the blood of a god; bloodshed is our lot. This goes beyond his soft, childish heart. If Ḫatti is to live, he is to die.

And the matter is more urgent now than ever. I saw Šarri-Kušuḫ and his men at the evening meal. The devastation of the plague is written into their faces, into the way they talk amongst each other in subdued voices, their brows lined with worry. As the table was cleared, one of them coughed, and immediately all eyes were on him. It was as if Ereškigal herself had walked into the room. I met Šarri-Kušuḫ’s eyes and knew he was thinking the same thing. If nothing changes, soon the whole of Ḫatti could be wasting away.

Turning away from the fire, I walk back into my bedchamber and pick up the tablet I left on the low table. I read over my words again. They have the same confident, astute tone as my husband’s letters used to have – good. Hopefully they will be enough to persuade their recipient on their own. But I know better than to take chances. I open the small chest nearby and pull out a silver rhyton shaped into the forepart of a stag, its edge circled by a ritual procession. It’s beautiful, enough to sway the gods themselves. Holding it lightly in my fingers, I lift my right hand to the sky.

‘Išḫara,’ I call out, loud enough that my words are clear but not heard from the hallway, ‘wherever you are, in your temples, in the countryside or the mountains, come and listen to my plea.’

I wait for a few heartbeats, the silver warming against my palm, then continue.

‘My lady, I was sent to offer you this silver, for the land of Ḫatti is oppressed from all sides. The boy who sits on its throne cannot hold its borders, and a plague has been killing its people for ten years now.’ I pause. ‘I dedicate this silver to you, my lady, and by using it in your name, I will honour you by protecting Ḫatti. May you in return look upon my work with favour. Harness this land to a ruler who can lead it your way, and its people, I swear it, will sing your praise forever.’

Lowering my hand, I reach for the tablet. I place it in a cloth bag along with the rhyton, tie it up, and stand. I find a girl from my retinue in the next room. She frowns when I lead her away, but I only bar my lips with a finger and place the bag in her hands.

‘Give this to a messenger to bring to the general Kantuzili in Ḫattuša,’ I tell her. ‘It must reach him as soon as possible, and not fall into the wrong hands. This is a vital matter for the land. Do you understand?’

The girl nods. I shoo her away, then return to my bedroom. I close the chest and blow out my oil lamps. If Kantuzili takes place at my side, the kingdom might be secure when my stepson dies. I will still need more allies, but this is a good start. I breathe in deeply, then out. Better days are ahead.

In the morning, even before my meal, I cross the palace to get news of Šarri-Kušuḫ’s men. They confirm what I feared: the man who coughed yesterday has fallen sick with the plague. By the early afternoon, two more have joined him. I give orders for them to be placed in isolation. The memory of my husband’s death hangs heavy over me, made even more vivid by seeing both Šarri-Kušuḫ and Muršili in simple clothes, their hair unkempt from grief. After dark, I send out another message to a potential ally and pray to Išḫara. It feels like we are at tipping point. Someone will need to catch us when we fall.

In the middle of the night, I’m woken up by a commotion. Šarri-Kušuḫ has caught the plague.

I force myself to visit him the next day, though the thought of it sends chills down my spine. I am the Great Queen, his stepmother; I owe it to him. When I come to his apartments, my little stepson is already leaving, his face pale, his eyes on the floor. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. I walk right past him and enter Šarri-Kušuḫ’s bedchamber. Just now, it’s the king of Kargamiš who matters most.

He’s lying in bed on his side, eyes half closed, breaths shallow, shoulders limp. I kneel down next to him. I’m intensely aware of how his life is trickling away. Nobody survives the plague. I take his hand carefully, feeling how warm it is and how similar to my husband’s before he died, and I speak his name.

‘Tawananna,’ he breathes back. The words cause him to cough, and one of his men quickly presses a cloth to his mouth. It comes back spotted with blood.

‘Tawananna,’ the sick man says again, ‘the silver…’

‘I dedicated it to Išḫara, as you requested.’

He shakes his head. ‘My brother says you have it.’

‘I have what I have not yet dedicated. But every mina will be given to Išḫara to protect us from the plague. I swear it.’

My voice seems to pierce through his fever. He opens his eyes a little further to look at me.

‘Do not lie,’ he says. ‘There is no silver in the temple. My brother told me.’

Anger courses through me.

‘What of it if I did not offer it in the temple? I dedicated it in the way that was best. Never would I have taken it for myself.’ I lean in closer. ‘I serve this kingdom with everything I have. Your small-minded brother knows that, and so do you.’

His head falls back onto the mattress. ‘I don’t…’ Another fit of coughing interrupts him. ‘Just offer the silver. For my sake.’

‘I have, and will keep doing so.’ My throat is tight with anger at Muršili. That he, of all people, could believe I’d work against the interests of the kingdom – it feels like an insult. I swallow it for now. Later, I will pray to Išḫara about this. Later. I press the hand of the king of Kargamiš.

‘Be strong,’ I tell him. ‘I have this matter under control.’

It doesn’t mean much to him, I think as I leave the room, but many other lives depend on it. I will not fail them.

Ḫatti will grow great again, and it will be thanks to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> There is very little evidence that can help us identify the specific plague that ravaged the Hittite kingdom during Muršili's reign. The Hittite term for it is simply ‘ḫinkan’, meaning ‘illness’ or ‘death’. I drew my inspiration from pneumonic plague, bubonic plague's highly contagious - and deadlier - sibling.
> 
> Dedicating an object to a deity and using it to honour them is common in modern polytheistic communities. I haven't found any evidence that this was done in the Hittite kingdom, but it seemed like a perfect explanation for the ‘matter of the silver of Aštata’, as Muršili calls it in his prayers, so I chose to depict it anyway.


	5. Fifth tablet

I’m at his side when Piyaššili, the last and dearest of my brothers, dies. In a way, it’s almost a relief: after five days of him suffering, and knowing he can’t escape, it’s finally over. I close his eyes and cover his face with the burial shroud, and I tell myself he’s at peace. He’s become a god. His pain is gone.

I don’t want his pain to be gone. I want him to be alive.

I leave the room without saying a word to any of his men, walk down the corridor, ignoring the palace workers who stare at me, and find my way onto the roof. Here, at least, I’ll be left alone. Part of me wants to find Gaššulawiya and hold her in my arms, hold her like nothing else matters, feel her fingers run through my hair as she tells me we’ll make everything better, but part of me doesn’t want anyone at all. I don’t need false reassurances. I’m a grown man. I can deal with this well enough on my own.

I grasp at the thought as the tears spill and keep spilling from my eyes.

I stay on the roof all afternoon and all evening, while outside the town a funeral pyre is built for my brother. I’m glad the substitution ritual isn’t over yet. It means I don’t have to attend the cremation. I don’t want to see Piyaššili’s broken body again. His bony hands he used to lay on my shoulder when I was afraid. His parched lips he used to laugh with. His sunken eyes he always told me were like our mother’s, though I was too young to remember how she looked.

Now, of all her children, only I remain. Her youngest, smallest, weakest son.

Gaššulawiya’s voice surges within me, telling me I’m enough just the way I am and we’ll find a way to live past this too, but it doesn’t take hold. I’ve given this land everything I have, everything I am. For close to nine years, I’ve tried my best. Several times, I’ve almost believed I succeeded – but every single time, just as I thought the struggle was over, the gods have knocked me back down.

Maybe my stepmother was right. Maybe it would be better if I was gone.

I rest my forehead against my knees and clench my eyes.

‘Gods,’ I gasp between uneven breaths, ‘take away this anguish from my soul. Let me be your king, or strike me down. Whatever is best for Ḫatti. Just show me your will.’

The skies are silent. Of course they are. The gods haven’t come to me since Ḫebat stopped sending me dreams. I wipe my cheeks, then my nose, on my sleeve. Fine. I’ll cope with this myself, then.

I stand and climb back down the ladder into the palace. I want to find Gaššulawiya now, if only to know we’re still in this together. Guilt pools in my chest. I should’ve gone to her long ago – she must be hurting too. I saw the worry in her face these last days. Once again, my sensitivity has kept me away from where I’m supposed to be.

I stop dead in my tracks. My stepmother is walking down the hallway. She lifts an eyebrow when she sees me, then turns away.

‘Malnigal,’ I call out before I can help myself. She won’t like that I addressed her by her name, but I don’t have the strength for titles just now. ‘Wait.’

She barely looks at me. ‘I don’t have time for you, boy.’

‘Then have time for my brother.’

She stops and glances back. Her eyes travel up my body, lingering on my face. I must look terrible – nothing like who she wants me to be. But I don’t care. Not now.

‘Tell me you did everything you could for him. Tell me you offered the silver of Aštata. Please.’

‘Of course I offered the silver.’ She wrinkles her nose, as if she can’t believe I even asked.

‘Where? Which temple?’

‘I sent it to Ḫattuša.’

‘You…’ The words get caught in my throat. ‘He wanted it to be given to Išḫara of Kummanni.’

‘I did what was best for him, and for us all. Perhaps you should take note.’

Her admonishment bites my insides, but I hardly notice it. Piyaššili spent his last breath asking about the silver. I hadn’t known how to reassure him, had only told him to be quiet, to know our stepmother was dealing with it, even though Išḫara’s priests said they hadn't seen her in the temple. I just wanted to ease his soul. And meanwhile, here she was, neglecting my dying brother’s wish.

‘You killed him.’

Her lips curl. ‘I killed him? I did?’ She steps closer. ‘And what did you do to prevent his death? How much silver have you given to drive away this plague?’

‘I prayed to Telepinu, to the Sungoddess –’

‘And what else? Tell me, boy, what have you brought to this kingdom since you sat yourself on your father’s throne? Was it you who struggled to contain the plague in the south for all these years, or was it your brothers? Did you continue your father’s campaign against Mizra to avenge Zannanza? Or did you squabble with swineherds and Luwian mice while your people died?’

I try to answer and can’t. My mind is frozen. She’s right. She’s always been right. I grapple with the thought as she steps back, chin high, her glare cold.

‘Your soft-hearted pity can’t save the kingdom,’ she says. ‘You know it.’

Without waiting for an answer, she turns and strides away. I stand still. As my mind begins to work again, my lips form the same words over and over. I’m barely conscious of what I’m mouthing. But the prayer keeps coming.

Gods, my lords, let it end.

Take away this anguish. This ache. This not knowing where you’re leading me.

Save us. If not me, then my wife, my children, my land.

Just let it end.

*

Muršili returns to our apartments late that night. Even in the flickering light of the oil lamps, I can see how his face is blotched and his eyes are red. He doesn’t greet me, doesn’t say a word, just sits down next to me, wraps his arms around me, and pulls me to his chest. It takes a long, long time for him to speak.

‘How are you?’

I don’t know what to answer. I feel like there’s nothing inside me. Like I’ve been grasping at smoke, trying to convince myself the gods care, when all they ever do is send us more blood. Šarri-Kušuḫ, Muršili, me – we were only ever just their toys.

And now it feels like they’re bringing the game to its end.

‘Can you fight against the way of things?’ I find myself asking.

Muršili’s lips brush against my temple.

‘I don’t want you to fight.’

‘And I don’t want you to die.’

He doesn’t answer. I huddle closer to him, and his clasp tightens around me. His fingers stroke my cheek, slowly, softly. I close my eyes. I don’t want anything else to exist.

‘Gaššulawiya,’ he says, ‘I have to ask you something. I’ll need to go to Kargamiš and Ḫalpa soon, probably to Nuḫašše as well. With the revolts and the plague, I’m not sure if I’ll –’

‘Don’t say it.’ I pull away from his embrace to look straight at him. He avoids my eyes.

‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but we can’t ignore it. I’ll give everything I have in this battle. I promise. I swear it, Gaššulawiya. But if the gods have chosen to end my life…’

‘Please don’t.’ My voice is weak.

‘If that’s what they’ve chosen, I want you to be safe. Tell me what you would need. I’ll make sure you have it.’

He glances at me and waits for me to say something. I can’t. The silence grows heavy between us, until at last he reaches over and pushes a lock of hair back behind my ear. His hand lingers against my skin.

‘I just want you to have a choice,’ he says. ‘To choose the future you want. One where you’ll be happy.’

This is why I love you, I think. This kindness. This concern for others, and for me – no matter how futile.

‘You know the Tawananna won’t keep to your promise,’ I say.

‘I don’t care,’ he blurts out. ‘I don’t care what she thinks about it. I’ll make it so she won’t have a say in the matter.’

‘She’s the queen.’

‘And you’re my wife.’ He draws me back into his arms. ‘You deserve more than to be pushed aside like you’re nothing.’

I rest my head against his chest without answering. His heart beats against my ear. More than ever, it sounds small, vulnerable – all it would take would be for a god to clench a fist around it, to squeeze out whatever sins he could still hold against Muršili, and it would fall silent. His brave, gentle voice, in the middle of this clamour calling for blood and death, would be lost. And if who he is isn’t enough to save him, what mercy is there left to believe in? Regardless of his promises, which way will the gods leave me to turn when – if – he’s gone?

I wrench myself away from the idea before it strangles me. Concentrate on his heartbeat. Nothing else.

‘I could make you my queen,’ he says abruptly.

I shake my head. ‘You can’t. Not as long as the Tawananna lives.’

‘She could keep her functions. I’d only give you the title. Put your name next to mine on my seals. Have it written in clay, and placed in the temple of the Sungoddess of Arinna. Enough to acknowledge you officially as my wife and make sure nobody can lay a hand on you.’

‘The Tawananna would never forgive you.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’ He pauses. ‘And if the gods want my life anyway, it wouldn’t make a difference.’

Again, the feeling of dread washes over me, and I struggle to drive it away. Muršili’s voice echoes in the leftover space. It’s a strange safety he’s offering me – one that hangs on the gods being cruel. But it’s still a safety. I think back to the Tawananna’s words, her tone, her way of looking at me, and my body tenses instinctively. She’d set me down and make me work among the palace girls the heartbeat she found out Muršili was dead – or worse, send me back to serve him in the Stone House. At least, with what he’s offering, I’ll be spared from that.

But I don’t want to think about it for now. Instead I insist it will be all right, because I have to, and I run my fingers through his hair like always, and dry away the tears that come to him in response. That night, he falls asleep with his arms enclosing me tightly. My fingers brush his forehead, his cheek, the line of his jaw as he sleeps. His skin is creased in a way it wasn’t two months ago. I wish I could rub it off – get rid of the omen, the plague, the enemy lands and the revolts, the Tawananna, his brothers’ deaths. Leave only his warmth around me, my body against his.

When at last sleep comes over me, I find myself in a place I know all too well. The temple is quiet – the last of the priests and the children have died. I lie behind the statue of the Moongod and don’t move. His feet are splattered with blood. There’s blood on my clothes. Blood in my mouth.

I wake up with a gasp. Muršili is deeply asleep next to me, his lips parted and letting his breath whistle through, slow and heavy with exhaustion. I listen to it as my heartbeats calm down. I want to wake him up too, if only so his grey eyes can replace the red, but I hold myself back. He needs this rest. So I only curl up closer to him, and I wait for morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> Muršili's prayers in this chapter are heavily drawn from his plague prayers, especially the second prayer to the Stormgod of Ḫatti. ‘Take away this anguish from my soul’ is a direct quote.
> 
> Zannanza was Muršili's brother, who was killed on a journey to Egypt (Mizra) in an affair that deserves a story of its own.
> 
> ‘Luwian mice’ is a reference to the king of Mira, Mašḫuiluwa, whose name means ‘little mouse’.


	6. Sixth tablet

We leave for Ḫattuša the same day my stepson leaves for Kargamiš. I’m already waiting on my chariot, ready to ride out the gates, when at last he appears on the palace steps with the Gašga swine at his side. They’re both well-dressed: my stepson has donned his royal clothes again, and he’s even wearing the king’s cap over his braided hair. Grasping his hand as if her life depended on it, the Gašga swine is all in blue, with beads of lapis lazuli glinting at her ears. My own attendants whisper when they see them. Dressed like this, the couple could almost pass for a Sun and a Tawananna. Almost.

They stop at the foot of the steps, and Muršili draws something from his tunic. Slowly, deliberately, so we all see it, he slips the object onto a bronze chain and ties it around the Gašga swine’s neck. He then produces a second object, identical to the first, and places it at his own throat. I narrow my eyes. It looks like a seal, though from this distance I can’t tell what it depicts. The two embrace, longer than is seemly for a king in front of his people, and then, finally, they part ways.

It’s only when the girl takes place at my side that I make out what it is he gave her. It is a seal, cross-shaped, inscribed with her name, his name, and the names of his ancestors, all in the Luwian script. But it’s her title that draws my eye. She’s styled Great Queen.

I press my lips together and turn away. After my stepson proclaimed her change of rank in the Sungoddess’s temple, two days after Šarri-Kušuḫ’s death, I should’ve expected this. Still, I’d assumed he wouldn’t have the nerve to follow through. A war captive, set up as Great Queen in the face of the Tawananna herself – and this not half a month after accusing me of stealing the silver of Aštata. Stupid boy. He’ll learn sooner than later that it won’t be in his favour.

Lifting my hand, I signal to the chariot driver, and with a crack of his whip we lurch forward. We journey out of Kummanni and across the countryside in silence. I soon forget about the Gašga swine and focus on the mountains growing nearer, their summits turned green, then golden, then orange, then pink as the day dies. There is beauty in this land, though when I first arrived I couldn’t see it. I remember how I felt out of place in this cold, rough landscape, I, a woman from the pastures between the two rivers, where the Sungod burns all year long. Even the taste of water was foreign. Yet somehow, in the two and a half decades I’ve lived here, I’ve come to love this kingdom and its people. Like a pupless dog given a litter of kittens, somehow, I’ve become protective.

We halt for the night in a small clearing, and our attendants set up the tent I must share with the Gašga swine. She retires to it early, as soon as the evening meal is over, and when I walk in some time later, she’s already asleep. She’s wrapped herself in her blankets with her back to me, her breaths shallow. I step past her and place the oil lamp I’m carrying on the lid of my chest. I have matters to attend to. Digging through my belongings until I find the incense I’m looking for, I light it at the flame of the lamp. The smell wafts into the night. I raise my right hand to the sky.

‘Išḫara of Aštata, wherever you are, may you come and hear my prayer.’ My voice is barely more than a whisper, but I glance towards the Gašga swine anyway as a precaution. She’s still asleep. ‘Išḫara of Aštata, my lady,’ I continue, the words coming by memory now, ‘turn towards me. You know I have never sinned against you, nor the land of Ḫatti. But the one who sits on the throne cannot and will not save it. He accuses me wrongly, and now he wants to displace me from the office the gods gave me. Do not listen to his word, goddess.’

The Gašga swine stirs, murmuring. I interrupt myself. She twists around then falls still again, the hint of a frown on her face.

‘Fulfill the omen,’ I say. ‘Seize Muršili, and let the land of Ḫatti be cleansed by his blood. Seize his wife, and seize his children. Listen to the word of the one who serves you. Let the land be unhitched from this boy, and let me lead it your way instead. Išḫara of Aštata,’ I repeat, feeling the power of my prayer course through my body, ‘Išḫara of the Netherworld, fulfill the omen.’

The girl stirs again. She whispers something in her sleep, turning her head one way then the other, and then, with a gasp, she freezes, completely, eerily motionless. I lower my hand and watch her. A word escapes her open mouth.

‘No,’ she breathes. Her frown deepens, but she still doesn’t move. I wonder what dream she’s been sent. ‘No,’ she repeats, and then, after several heartbeats of silence: ‘There’s so much blood.’

Her eyes fling themselves open. She stares at me, terror in her face, swallowing in an attempt to get her breaths under control. She draws her knees up to her chest. She knows I heard. I speak to her evenly, my voice cutting across the space between us.

‘Of course there is blood.’ Her body tenses. She wants me to be quiet, I can tell. I continue anyway. ‘Life is blood, child. Get used to it. Denying the truth out of fear won’t spare you.’

She keeps staring at me. With her eyes so wide and her body curled up so tight, she seems smaller than usual. The fierceness of her glare doesn’t make up for it. She reminds me of a sparrow, pretending to be a hawk.

‘What were you doing?’ she whispers.

‘Praying for the kingdom.’

‘Why do you pray if the gods are cruel?’

‘They aren’t cruel.’ I blow out the flame of the oil lamp. ‘When it comes to preserving order, there is no such thing as cruelty. Only justice.’

Her blankets rustle. In the darkness, I can barely discern her silhouette as she stands up and walks out of the tent. I stay by the chest until the incense burns down. Then I slip into my own bed, and I fall asleep fast.

*

I don’t return to the tent. I walk around camp until the Moongod sets behind the mountains, and when one of the guards calls me, I hold his gaze and keep walking. My left fist clasps the seal Muršili gave me, my right the hilt of my dagger. I won’t let her words get to me. That’s exactly what she wants. She wants to snake her grip around my mind, seep into me, hold her voice like a blade to my throat so that even if I’m free, even if I’m her equal in rank, I’m still hers. But I will never be. I’m a Gašga. Resistance is in our blood.

I sleep under the stars that night, and every night after that. When the ghosts come again, I rub my seal until they give up and vanish. Sometimes I see Muršili among them. I know it’s just a lie, a trick they play on me, but that doesn’t make it easier – not when I see him fall down in front of the Moongod’s statue, red splattering his face, and the Moongod’s eyes are empty and cold. ‘No,’ I cry out and seize the god’s feet, ‘there are better ways than this, don’t let it be like this,’ but he doesn’t react. I wake up with ragged breaths, my heart thumping like it wants to crack my ribs open. I can’t believe it. I mustn’t believe it. I don’t know what will be left if I do.

We meet travellers on the road, and each time, the charioteers offer them a drink in exchange for news. What they tell us barely reassures me. Muršili has sent his general Kurunta to fight Nuḫašše and Kinza in the south, and Nuwanza is still struggling against Azzi-Ḫayaša in the north. There’s little news from Kargamiš. One messenger, travelling up from Ḫalpa to Ḫattuša, stops just long enough to tell us the men of Aššur have occupied the land, and the king is preparing to ride against them from Aštata; that’s all he knows. I close my hand around my seal as he speeds away. I tell myself this means Muršili is alive. If he’d been killed, the whole land would have heard it.

It doesn’t stop the ghosts from coming.

We cross the Lion Gate of Ḫattuša on a cool, clouded evening as the sun sets. I leave the Tawananna, the charioteers, the soldiers and the attendants in the courtyard and go at once to find my children. The palace girls are already putting them to bed when I get to their chambers. Ḫalpašulupi and Muwatalli are lying side by side on the same mattress, bickering over who has more of the blanket; on the bed next to them, Maššanauzzi is helping little Ḫattušili take off his day clothes. They all jump up when I walk in. Ḫalpašulupi launches himself off the bed into my arms.

‘ _Anna_ ,’ he shrieks, ‘you’re back!’

I lower him onto the floor. He’s taller than when I left, and too heavy for me to carry. He doesn’t let go, and his siblings run over to hug me too, until I have four children hanging onto my legs and waist. Muwatalli rests his chin on my stomach to look up at me.

‘Is _atta_ home too?’ he asks.

I wonder how to explain it to him, or if I even should. In the end, I only shake my head.

‘Oh.’ He pouts. ‘When is he coming?’

‘Later. I’m not sure when.’

They all look disappointed, but it only lasts a moment. Maššanauzzi tugs on my hand.

‘ _Anna_ , can you stay with us now? Please? We missed you.’

I’d planned to spend most of the evening in the hills, to fill my lungs with air and forget everything around me, but now I find I can’t let go. I gesture to the palace girls to leave us. Picking up Maššanauzzi, I sit her on the nearest bed and crawl in next to her. The older boys cuddle up to me. Ḫattušili climbs onto my lap. I hold them all close and say nothing, just listen as they babble about their day, close my eyes and breathe in their scent, stroke their soft hands, the hands of my children. Muršili’s children.

Ḫattušili falls asleep before long, his head on my breast, and Ḫalpašulupi very seriously places a finger across his lips and tells the others to be quiet. I lay my youngest son down and drape a blanket over him. Whispering now, Ḫalpašulupi, Muwatalli and Maššanauzzi snuggle back up to each other and to me. Maššanauzzi yawns.

‘ _Anna_ ,’ says Muwatalli, ‘can you sing us a lullaby? You never do.’

‘I don’t know any lullabies,’ I say.

Maššanauzzi lifts up her head and frowns. ‘Yes, you do. Everyone does.’

I search through my memory. There is one song, though my heart squeezes when I think of it – even after so many years, it’s carved into my mind. My playmates and I used to sing it to each other when we slept in the Moongod’s temple. I hum the beginning. It sounds strange in my adult voice, and a shiver runs over me. It feels like I’m back there, a small child curled up with a dozen other small children, back before the soldiers from Ḫattuša came to our town. Before the blood.

I draw my little ones closer and start singing. I’m with them now. Ḫalpašulupi and Muwatalli have sunk into each other’s arms, all their squabbling forgotten, and Muwatalli’s head hangs back with his mouth open just like his father when he sleeps. I brush his cheek with a finger, rub Maššanauzzi’s back with my other hand. I don’t know when it is I start crying. The tears drip into my daughter’s hair and I try to hold them back, so I don’t wake her up, but they keep falling. My song fades away.

‘I’ll protect you,’ I mouth. ‘I swear it. Whatever happens to your _atta_ , you’ll be safe. Even if I have to go up against the Tawananna herself. Even if Ḫatti is torn apart.’ I swallow. ‘Even if the gods want to spill innocent blood. I’ll give them my own if it means saving you.’

Maššanauzzi rolls over in my lap, a strand of hair in her mouth. I lift it out. It doesn’t feel right to be saying these words above a baby like her, like them all. But I hardly know what right is anymore, and it’s the best I can do.

I stay for a while longer, listening to them breathe, then I carefully wriggle out of their arms and creep away. The corridor is cold. I hug my waist and hurry back to my own apartments. I’ll find myself a cape, then slip outside and walk until my eyelids grow too heavy. Hopefully, when I sleep, I’ll be too tired to dream.

Two silhouettes stand whispering near the entrance to the throne room. They turn their heads when they hear me approach. I slow down, my stomach lurching. One of them is Muršili’s general – Kantuzili, I think. The other is the Tawananna.

She says nothing as I brush past her, but I feel her eyes on my back until I turn the corner. Her words surge in my mind. I want to silence them, cut her throat so she can never speak again – my hand even wanders down to my waist. I stop myself before I pull out my dagger. I won’t harm her, if only to prove her wrong.

There might still be more than blood. We might still find a way out of this. Muršili might still come home.

*

As soon as the Gašga swine disappears around the corner, Kantuzili touches my shoulder.

‘We should go somewhere more private,’ he says.

I nod towards the throne room. He hesitates for a moment, but once I’ve stepped in, he follows me through. I close the doors behind him. The room is gloomy, the throne barely visible in the shadows of the dais. I sit myself down on one of the benches along the wall.

‘So you think the king won’t return from campaign,’ Kantuzili says.

‘He’s threatened from all sides,’ I reply, leaning back. ‘He’s going up against Aššur itself in Kargamiš, and he still has Azzi-Ḫayaša, Nuḫašše, and from what I’ve heard, Kinza to deal with. Even if he’s victorious on all fronts, the plague is still oppressing the land. I doubt he’ll make it out alive.’ I purse my lips. ‘And then there’s the omen.’

Kantuzili paces across the floor, his arms crossed. With a jerk of his head, he tosses his braid back behind his shoulders.

‘And if you’re wrong?’

‘I will not be wrong. One way or another, Muršili will die.’

He stops. ‘Are you suggesting we have him killed?’

‘Of course not,’ I retort. ‘Don’t you know what history this kingdom is built on? If we start murdering each other, it will never stop.’ I tap my fingers on the edge of the bench. Their rhythm echoes the padding of Kantuzili’s feet, who has gone back to pacing. ‘No. There are other ways to wear him down.’

‘Tell me.’

‘He lost his two brothers this summer. He’s dangling from the point of a needle. It wouldn’t take much to shake him loose, and when he is loose, he is reckless. He tries to prove himself strong. He could easily be pushed to the front line of his next battle. And the next. And the next.’ Kantuzili slows down, and uncrosses his arms to rub his chin. ‘And if he survives even then, a stray arrow from one of his archers would put an end to it.’

‘He’s not the boy he used to be. Wearing him down this way won’t be as easy as you’d like to think.’

‘I know him, Kantuzili.’

I sit up straight and drive my gaze into his. The general raises his eyebrows, listening.

‘I’ve lived with him since he was five years old. I know how his heart works. Yes, he’s more willful than he was when he came to the throne, and his Gašga swine is in part responsible for that. He finds strength in her. But she is also his weakness. Cut her open, and we will have him.’

Kantuzili scoffs.

‘You would target Gaššulawiya? The woman who looks at everyone like her eyes are blades?’

‘They are less sharp than she wants to believe. And I know how to disarm her.’ I lean against the wall again. ‘Did you know she is sick with the hand of a ghost?’

Kantuzili’s eyes widen in surprise.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘I’ve seen it. It’s becoming worse. I could turn that to our advantage.’

‘Fine,’ Kantuzili says. ‘Let’s try it. But once the king is dead, we will need a firm grip on the kingdom to prevent it from collapsing. The south will likely be in turmoil, and Aššur could take advantage of it. Have you written to your brother yet?’

I shake my head.

‘Do it,’ Kantuzili says. ‘If Karduniaš renews its alliance with us, we could pen Aššur up between both our armies.’

He’s right. I smile; this is the kind of thinking I like.

‘I will send him the finest gifts from the palace,’ I say.

‘Send some to the Stone House of Ḫattuša as well. We will need the ancestors on our side for this.’

‘Of course.’

‘And be at the ready. Whenever the king dies, we will need to step in fast.’

Kantuzili stops in front of me, tossing his braid behind his shoulders again. I look beyond him, to the throne painted grey and black with night. I nod.

‘But for now, we wait.’

Kantuzili bows his head.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We wait.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The seal on which Gaššulawiya is styled as Great Queen is lost, but impressions of it have been found on clay. You can find images by Googling ‘Muršili cruciform seal’.
> 
> ‘Anna’ is the Hittite word for ‘mother’.
> 
> ‘Dangling from the point of a needle’ is an expression used in one of Muršili's prayers to describe a highly precarious state. ‘At the end of the rope’ is a pretty close equivalent in English.
> 
> The ‘hand of a ghost’ was the Mesopotamian explanation for what we would call post-traumatic stress disorder. While we consider this a mental illness, in Mesopotamia it wasn't categorised differently from physical illnesses. It was understood as a kind of haunting, or curse, by the ghosts of the people who died in the traumatic event (usually war).


	7. Seventh tablet

Summer dies, and I still have no news of Muršili. As the autumn rains begin to fall, Muwatalli loses his first tooth, and it takes everything I have to convince him not to wrap it in cloth and keep it until he can show his father. He and Ḫalpašulupi ask about him almost every day. I tell them their _atta_ is protecting the people of Kargamiš, and they quickly work the idea into their games. Once, I catch Maššanauzzi pretending to die of the plague. I say nothing, but it makes my insides turn.

I wear my seal every day. It gives me a sense of control, even as the skies seem to close in around me. I am the Sun’s wife. The Great Queen. However much the Tawananna tries to toy with me, to find the places where I’m tender and press her nails into them, she can’t take this from me. I am not, and will never be hers.

Even so, the ghosts keep coming.

I lie in bed for a long time in the mornings, waiting for the blood to fade away, whispering to myself and, in a way, to the gods. ‘We’ll survive,’ I say. ‘We’ll both survive. It doesn’t have to be like this. We’ll show you there’s more than this.’ I keep saying it until I believe it. ‘Muršili will come home. Muršili will come home. Muršili will come home.’ As if, by speaking it out loud enough times, I could make it happen.

Sometimes the Tawananna’s voice cuts across mine. ‘Denying the truth out of fear won’t spare you,’ she says, and I clench my eyes to make it go away. ‘Muršili will come home,’ I repeat. ‘Mercy is greater than blood. Muršili will come home.’

The nights grow longer and longer. Muršili doesn’t come home.

The whole palace is alive with whispers. To my face, the palace girls insist the weather has prevented messengers from reaching the Upper Land, since landslides have closed many of the passes; behind my back, they wonder if the plague has become so bad there are no messengers left to send. People have been dying as close by as Neša, one of the nobles says at our evening meal. Soon they will be dying in Ḫattuša itself.

The next morning, the Tawananna calls me aside. She places a small chest in my hands.

‘We must pray for our lives,’ she says. ‘I have prepared these offerings for the ancestors of the great family. It would be seemly for you, as the king’s wife and Great Queen, to offer them.’

Her lips curve into a smile, but her eyes stay unchanged. My fingers contract on the chest. She wants me to go to the Stone House. To kneel before Muršili’s father again. Even the thought of it makes me feel sick.

‘I wrote a tablet with a prayer for you to read out,’ she continues. ‘You will find it in the chest. If you don’t know the signs, ask a priest.’

‘I can read.’

‘Good.’ She nods towards the door. ‘Then go.’

I don’t move. My entire body is tense.

‘Why don’t you do it?’

Her smile fades. ‘I have other matters to take care of, girl. With your husband gone, this kingdom will not rule itself.’ She turns to leave.

The word is out before my mind can catch up.

‘No.’

Her gaze flicks back towards me. One of my hands has fallen onto the hilt of my dagger. I speak before the Tawananna can.

‘No. I won’t go.’

‘And risk us all?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Learn to think before you speak, girl. Consider that your husband’s life might depend on it.’

Though I don’t let go of the dagger, something roils in my stomach. For the fraction of a heartbeat, I see the ghosts again, the glint of bronze, Muršili collapsing. The Tawananna’s eyes don’t leave me. She knows what I’m seeing. I start pulling the blade from its scabbard, ready to swing it at her, to tear the satisfaction out of her face.

But this isn’t about me. This is about Muršili.

Slowly, my fingers relax on the hilt. It leaves me feeling empty.

‘Ḫantili,’ the Tawananna calls out. One of the men walks over. ‘Accompany Gaššulawiya to the Stone House, will you.’

Ignoring the hand Ḫantili holds out to me, I sheathe my dagger again and turn my heels. If I have to do this, I’ll do it on my own. We walk out of the dining hall and into the courtyard. It’s cold outside, and a mist that’s turning to drizzle hangs over Ḫattuša. Soon it will be snowing. My hands tense again on the chest. Muršili has never been away this late.

The Stone House looms out of the greyness, squat and plain among the other temples, and I almost stop and turn around. Entering the outer chamber feels like stepping into a memory. It looks the same, sounds the same, even smells the same as the last time I was here. I tell Ḫantili to leave me and edge forward. I pass the doorway of the cella with my legs shaking. Rows of stone eyes stare at me. I know them all – Ḫattušili, the first Muršili, Telepinu, Tudḫaliya, the other Tudḫaliya, Šuppiluliuma, Arnuwanda. Their presence weighs on my shoulders as I kneel down.

I open the chest and take out the Tawananna’s tablet. She wrote using southern signs, maybe on purpose. With my mind so numb, I struggle to understand even the first line of her prayer. I can recognise some common words – ‘gods’ and ‘land’ and ‘turn towards’. It seems to be a generic request for safety. I begin to read out what I can.

‘My lords, the Tawananna has sent me saying: only Ḫatti is a respectful land to you, and only in Ḫatti do we provide… sacrifices.’ I squint. ‘Everything we give you is pure…’

I interrupt myself. I can’t continue – not when my chest is this tight. I drop the tablet back down onto the offerings. My hands are cold. I press them to my stomach.

‘Why?’ I breathe.

I twist around to look at Šuppiluliuma’s statue. His feet are clean, though stained by the thousands of libations that have been poured onto them. I close my eyes. Don’t think of the blood.

‘Why isn’t Muršili enough? Why won’t you let his softness outweigh your sins? He’s innocent. He has only ever tried to be a good man. Why isn’t that enough to spare him?’

Someone laughs in the distance. It feels like a blade through my stomach.

‘Why do you insist on spilling innocent blood? The Tawananna said you ruled, and the gods rule with justice, but where is the justice in that? Is there even justice?’ I’m hugging my stomach so hard it feels like I’m going to break in half. ‘And if there isn’t justice, what… what is there?’

The ghosts surge, screaming and falling down in front of me like they have so many times, and I try to force them back, but it’s like fighting off night with a single oil lamp. I see myself, hardly more than a child, hiding behind the Moongod’s statue with blood on my clothes. The taste of blood in my mouth.

I let out a choked sound. I need to get out of here. I lift myself to my feet and trip out of the cella, leaving the chest behind. I only notice I’ve found my way out of the Stone House when the coldness of the rain hits me. The fresh air eases the tension inside me, just a bit. I walk towards the Lion Gate. I need to be alone. Away. To lose myself in the openness of the land.

I wander for what feels like forever, not sure in which direction I’m going, only aware of the grey-green hills and the grey sky. The rain sticks my clothes to my skin and freezes me to the bone, but I need to feel it. It reminds me of where I am. I climb to the top of a hill and stand there for some time, trying to figure out which way the city is, then slide back down. I don’t know where it is. But it doesn’t matter.

The Stormgod thunders in the distance. I speak back.

‘Curse your justice. Curse your laws and the chains that bind us to them. Curse the things you’ve made us live through. Curse it all.’

The wind rips my voice away from me. I close my hands into fists. Let it carry my words to the gods’ ears. If kindness won’t sway them, maybe anger will.

And then I see it. Moving towards me through the long grass, barely visible in the rain, there’s a silhouette. I wonder for a heartbeat if it’s the Stormgod of Ḫatti himself, come to strike me down for insulting his greatness. But it’s not tall enough to be a god.

No. It’s a man.

*

I knew it was her the moment I glimpsed her. I jumped off my chariot without waiting for it to stop and waded through the grass, calling her name. She didn’t hear; even now, just ten steps away, she doesn’t seem to recognise me. Her face is blank and her shoulders tight. She stares at me until I’m right in front of her, holding out my hands to her, clasping her, and then something breaks and she pulls herself to my chest with her whole body shaking, and she grips me so hard it hurts. I kiss her temple.

‘I’m back,’ I say at her ear. ‘I’m back.’

I want to tell her about everything, about my victory in Kargamiš, my generals’ victories in Nuḫašše and Kinza and Azzi-Ḫayaša, how my army was delayed near Ḫurna and fought in the mountains by night, but my throat is stopped up. I rub her shoulders and arms and feel her goosebumps through the cloth. Her hair hangs down her back in a soaked, tangled mess.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘Why were you out in the rain?’

She clings to me and doesn’t answer. The emptiness in her face isn’t gone. With a twist in my stomach, I recognise it as the look she gets when she wakes up at night, gasping and stammering about ghosts – like she’s staring at something only she can see. Water drips down her cheeks, but I can’t tell if it’s rain or tears. I open my cloak and enfold her in it.

‘What happened?’

She still doesn’t answer. I keep rubbing her, trying to get some warmth into her ice-cold body. She must’ve been out here for a long time.

‘Talk to me, love of my heart, please.’

At last, she takes in a shaky breath.

‘I –’

Her teeth chatter too much for me to understand the rest. Now isn’t the time to ask her about it, I realise. I undo my cloak and tie it around her, lifting her hair away so it doesn’t get caught on the string, making sure she’s fully covered.

‘Come,’ I say, ‘my chariot is waiting over there. We’ll get you home.’

She doesn’t talk for the entire journey, only huddles against me. I stroke her head and tell her it’s all right. The campaigns are over; the gods have spared me; we’re together again. She’s safe. I’m here. The ghosts will fade, but I’ll always be here.

The rain keeps away the crowds that would’ve otherwise been drawn by my arrival, and I ride into the palace courtyard without interception. Only my stepmother is waiting by the doors. Gaššulawiya freezes when she sees her. My stepmother lifts an eyebrow but says nothing when I walk straight past her, acknowledging her presence with just a nod, then leading Gaššulawiya indoors. I’ll deal with her usual disapproval later. Maybe never.

In the hallway, I call to a palace worker to light the fire in my bedchamber and have a pitcher of warm wine brought. The room is still cold when we arrive, so I sit Gaššulawiya on the bed, help her change into dry clothes, then bundle her up in all the blankets I can find. I cuddle up next to her. She’s still shivering. I rub her back.

‘Where were you?’ she chokes at last. ‘What took you so long?’

I tell her, putting in as many details as I can to distract her. She leans her head against my shoulder and listens. Some colour is coming back to her cheeks. It’s such a relief to have her in my arms, I think, to see her deep eyes and hear her northern lilt again. The gods have been kinder than I expected these last months, running in front of my army as we marched against Aššur, turning my allies back to me, protecting me from the plague and from enemy blades despite the omen, but all of it pales in comparison to having my wife, the woman I love, at my side.

As I talk, she coughs, and my heart skips a beat. I’ve heard that sound too often in the last three months, often enough that I instinctively want to let go of her and hurry away – but of course it isn’t the plague. It’s just the cold getting to her. I kiss her forehead and rock her in my arms until it stops. She’ll be better soon. It will all be better soon.

‘How have you been?’ I ask.

She stares into the distance, quiet. The look in her eyes isn’t gone, though it’s fading. She gives a small nod.

‘Muwatalli lost a tooth,’ she says.

‘Already?’ It feels like yesterday I first lifted him up to my shoulder, a tiny baby that wouldn’t stop crying. ‘They grow up too fast.’

She smiles, just a little.

‘They can’t wait to see you.’

‘I can’t wait to see them.’ I brush my thumb along her cheek. ‘But for now, I just want to stay with you.’

She closes her eyes, her brow furrowing. Little by little, though I can tell she’s trying to hold them back, tears seep between her eyelashes. I wipe them away. They keep coming.

‘I was so scared,’ she murmurs.

I kiss her forehead again, fighting back guilt. None of this should’ve been hers to bear. Of course, she bore it resolutely, as she always has done – even now, she presses her lips together and tries to swallow the tears away – but it makes my heart ache to know she went through it at all. When I married her, all those years ago, I’d promised her happiness. Peace. Instead she’s here, struggling with her fears all over again.

‘It’s over now,’ I tell her. ‘I’m back. The gods have brought it all to an end.’

She opens her eyes and drives them into mine.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I’m safe. You’re safe. The kingdom is safe.’ The plague rages on, but she doesn’t need to hear that now. I hug her to my heart. ‘You always said we’d find a way. Well, we found it. We found it and now, we’re home.’


	8. Eighth tablet

I cough all afternoon and by evening my mind is swimming, but it doesn’t matter. I bury myself in my blankets and let myself forget everything else around me. Forget the Tawananna – she won’t come here. Forget the Stone House. Forget everything except Muršili, and the knowledge that he’s home.

He brings me a bowl of lentil soup when he returns from the evening meal, along with a cup of warm water mixed with honey. He combs my hair back with his fingers as I try to swallow it down. My throat burns with each sip. Muršili talks to me about nothing, his voice deep and gentle, and when I can’t eat anymore he takes the bowl out of my hands then helps me lie down, tucking the blankets around me. He sits himself on the bed, next to me. His hand brushing my head, he stays there until I fall asleep.

Stone eyes and bloodied bodies fill my dreams. My muddled mind distorts them until they’re unrecognisable, and I wake up with tears I hardly understand running into my mouth. An arm’s length away, Muršili stirs. He locks his fingers into mine, half asleep, and presses them. The ghosts don’t go away after that, but I feel a little bit stronger facing them. I’m not alone anymore.

The next days blend into each other. A man comes one morning to touch my forehead with the back of his hand, give me crushed herbs to drink and say an incantation over me, and almost as soon as he leaves, I fall into a heavy sleep. When I open my eyes again, Muršili is back at my side, holding a round tablet the size of his palm. He puts it into my hand. It’s lined with the wide, careful wedges of a child – Ḫalpašulupi. Pictures of birds and flowers are carved below.

‘They were all asking if they could see you,’ Muršili smiles. ‘I convinced them to write you a message instead.’

A smile pulls at my lips in return. ‘Tell them that’s kind.’

He rests his chin in his hand and tilts his head, eyebrows drawn together.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘All right.’

‘Better or worse?’

I shrug. I’m not sure.

‘I’ve arranged for us to spend the winter in Ankuwa,’ he says. ‘We’ll leave as soon as you are well. I haven’t told my stepmother yet. I thought you might want to spend some time away from her.’

I relax back down onto the mattress. ‘Thank you.’

‘After all we’ve been through this summer, I thought we could do with some peace.’

An ache blossoms in my chest, and I close my eyes to drive it away. I don’t want this now. It curls around my ribs anyway, makes my heart tight. The words are out before I can stop them.

‘How do you know we’ve found the end of it?’

My voice is thin. I blink my eyes open.

‘How do you know this isn’t just another game the gods are playing with us? Have you had oracles done?’

The line between his eyebrows grows deeper.

‘I haven’t been given clear answers yet, but –’

‘Then how?’

He’s silent. I swallow, fighting off the ache, my budding tears, and the fever all at once.

‘The gods are cruel. I’ve seen it. Why would they spare us? Why would everything you do to rule better matter to them, when they’re ready to have innocent blood spilled like we’re nothing?’

‘I don’t know.’ He says it quietly, his eyes on the wall. ‘I really don’t know.’

The fire crackles. It’s beginning to smoulder. Muršili keeps staring at the wall.

‘I still wonder if my stepmother is right, you know. Maybe I’m not enough. Maybe the gods built humanity out of nothing but blood and ruthlessness. Maybe they will kill me tomorrow, and laugh about it.’ He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Maybe there is no answer to anything at all.’

I clench my fist around the tablet. That was the reply I’d been dreading.

‘But then,’ he says, ‘maybe that’s why they made us.’

I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Life is tied to death. Death is tied to life. A god can live forever, but a child of humanity doesn’t. Maybe that’s why they made us mortal. To tell them what the counterpart of blood and death is.’

‘And if they don’t listen?’

‘Maybe that’s why we call our prayers arguments.’ He lets out a weak laugh. ‘The assembly of the gods is like the assemblies of men. We need to plead our case. We show them what kindness is, so they can show it, maybe, to us.’

I inhale and close my eyes again. I’m too tired to think this through properly – but it does lessen up the ache in my chest a bit. I find that I’m breathing more easily. Through the haze of illness, I feel Muršili’s lips on my forehead.

‘Rest,’ he says. ‘The gods can wait for us to argue with them. For now I want you to feel better.’

Sleep is already coming over me by the time his touch lifts away. I let myself fall into it.

For the first time since the end of summer, I don’t dream of ghosts.

*

Gaššulawiya sleeps all through the night and is still sleeping when I return from the morning meal. Near midday, she wakes up for a while, though she’s drowsy and doesn’t talk much. She clutches the tablet Ḫalpašulupi prepared for her the whole time. I tell her how he and Maššanauzzi found our ceremonial jewellery and wore it at mealtime, insisting on being called king and queen. That draws the shadow of a smile out of her. She’s coughing less now, and when she drifts into sleep again she hardly frets.

I sit by her side and watch as her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. Barely touching her, so I don’t wake her up, I glide a finger along her hairline, across her cheek, over her open lips. Her breath trembles against my skin. It’s frighteningly weak. For a heartbeat, I wonder if it’s slipping away. My lungs feel empty just to imagine it – what if she’s right and it isn’t over? What if the Sungoddess of the Netherworld is draining her life, not mine, to wash away the promise of death? Just as the thought crosses my mind, she takes in a long breath and nestles deeper into her blankets. I force myself to breathe in too. She’s always been stronger than she looks. She will make it through this.

She wakes up again in the evening, and I manage to make her drink a cup of honeyed water, though she barely nibbles at the flatbread I had sent up. She must’ve noticed the worry in my face, because she reaches out a hand and touches it to my heart. She shakes her head.

‘Don’t,’ she murmurs.

I entwine my fingers with hers and kiss her knuckles. Despite her exhaustion, her face is intent, full of that fierceness I both love and wish she didn’t need. She squeezes my hand.

‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’

She closes her eyes again. I stay for some time, making sure she’s breathing regularly, then slip my fingers out of hers and tiptoe out of the room. I need a change of air. I walk a little way down the corridor then stop, lean against the wall, and let myself slide down until I’m sitting on the bare floor. I take off my amulet and hold it in my fist. The gold it’s made of is warm from my skin.

‘Sungoddess, my lady,’ I say out loud. ‘Listen to me. We’ve shown you our mercy. We’ve shown your our kindness. Now is your turn to show it back to us.’

My voices echoes against the walls. I drop my head onto my knees and try to swallow. My chest is tight. Too tight.

‘Please,’ I choke.

‘Your Sun?’

I jerk my head up. A palace girl is standing at the corner of the corridor. She steps forward hesitantly.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

I bury my shaking hands in my clothes and try to calm my breathing down. My mind is numb. My thoughts are breaking, shattering.

‘Should I send someone to pray to Lelwani?’ the girl asks. ‘Give her a substitute of some kind, on behalf of the Great Queen?’

A substitute. I nod. If the gods insist on bloodshed, that could appease them.

‘The best you have,’ I manage to say.

She scuttles away. I stay where I am, still struggling to breathe. The only lit lamp dies as I sit there. I wonder how late it is. The entire palace is quiet. At last, I heave myself to my feet and return to my apartments, to the bedchamber where Gaššulawiya is sleeping. The firelight paints her face golden. She stirs and makes a small sound when I sit down at her side.

‘Shush,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just me.’

Her eyelids flutter open. There’s a strange hollowness in her eyes. I know what it is. I’ve seen it before. It hits me and I feel sick, more sick than before, and I pull her into my lap, her head in the crack of my arm, and cradle her like a baby.

‘Muršili,’ she breathes. She says something else too, but I don’t understand it. I think she’s speaking Gašga. Her voice is too faint for me to be sure.

‘I’m here,’ I reply.

Her eyes close. I press my forehead to hers, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine. It’s only by listening to her breathing that I realise I’m not. I inhale. All it does is make me feel more nauseous.

Gods, have mercy. Please.

‘Gaššulawiya,’ I say in a voice I hardly recognise as my own. Her eyelids quiver. ‘You know I love you.’

I feel her nod more than I see it. I want to tell her I’m sorry, but the words get caught in my throat. Instead I just hold her. And it’s like that that slowly, quietly, with her forehead against mine, she stops breathing.

The Sungoddess of the Netherworld has taken her.

I don’t move, keep cradling her as if she could still feel it. I don’t even cry. I feel like my body is empty, like I’m the one who died – like it should have been. She was supposed to be free. She was supposed to be happy. Not…

The fire sputters. I look up. I can’t let it go out. I lie Gaššulawiya back down and stumble over to put another log on the embers, distantly aware of how strange it is to be doing this now. But I need something, anything, to be normal. I stir the fire with a poker. Sparks fly up. Soon the heat peels at my skin, and I have to take a step back.

I find the pitcher of water on the table by the door. Carrying it over to the bed, I pour a few drops onto a cloth – I can’t remember where it came from, or who left it here – and start washing Gaššulawiya’s face. I wipe down her neck and shoulders, her hands too, straighten up her dress and brush away the hair from her forehead. I don’t know why I’m doing this when the women will do it anyway, but it stops me from thinking. I arrange her hair carefully around her head. Even like this, she is beautiful.

And then suddenly, I have nothing left to do. I sit there and wonder if I should call someone, change into mourning clothes maybe, or wait until dawn and try to get some sleep, or just not move at all. Maybe I shouldn’t move at all. I lay my head down on my arms. I don’t want to hear the laments and smell the sacrifices yet – I don’t want to hear or smell or see or feel anything. So I stay there, with my head in my arms and my knees on the floor, and I stare at nothing until my eyes go blank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The ‘life is tied to death’ quote is from the Prayer of Kantuzili, a text which Muršili almost certainly read. Incidentally, it's one of my favourite quotes from the entire Hittite corpus.
> 
> Lelwani is a Hittite deity associated with illness and healing. At least two prayers were written to her for Gaššulawiya's recovery (though probably at an earlier time than here). One of them mentions a human substitute, though it's unclear whether she was sacrificed or simply meant to take on the illness herself. Muršili describes her in these terms: ‘Compared to me she is excellent. She is pure, she is radiant, she is pale, she is endowed with everything.’ It was likely just a ritual phrase, but the ‘compared to me’ always breaks my heart.


	9. Ninth tablet

I’m not sure if I sleep. At dawn, I manage to find someone somewhere and tell them what happened, though I don’t know how; I hardly remember anything for the next few days. I don’t even know if the children find out from someone else their mother is dead, or if I tell them myself. The only thing I can recall clearly is insisting Gaššulawiya’s remains should not be brought to the Stone House. I know it doesn’t make a difference, she’s among the gods now, not in these burnt and oiled bones everyone wants to place among those of my ancestors, but I still can’t bear the thought of it, her being kept forever in this place she hated. I say it to the priests over and over. Finally, they relent and let me set up a tomb in the hills instead. I don’t remember her burial, but I do remember standing there, with orange leaves falling onto the overturned earth and birds fluttering overhead.

It’s my feet that find their way back to the palace, not me. I avoid meeting anyone’s eyes and take the corridor leading through the old archives back to my apartments, away from people’s whispers. I don’t want to hear what they think about me. I’ll be a good king another time. Right now, it hurts too much.

A voice ahead of me makes me stop. I don’t need to look through the half open door to know who it is – I would recognise my stepmother’s clear, haughty tone anywhere. I stand with my back to the wall, swallowing past the sudden constriction in my throat, and gather the courage to walk past. It’s just a few steps. Just a few steps and it will be over. I won’t have to see her again all day.

Her words slip through the fog inside me.

‘Of course it will. Have you seen him? He’s barely even aware of where he is.’

‘I know,’ a man replies. The voice is familiar, though I can’t place it. ‘I’ve seen him.’

‘Then you know he is more vulnerable than ever.’

There’s a silence. I realise my hands are clammy. Something is wrong about this conversation, but my thoughts are too muddled to figure out what. All I want is to get out of here.

‘Did you intend this to happen?’ the man asks. ‘For Gaššulawiya to die?’

‘No. It was an unfortunate side effect, but one which is to our advantage. With her dead –’

I don’t hear the rest. I double over, clamping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from being sick. Gaššulawiya’s death, an unfortunate side effect. As if she was just a thing to be traded. As if she hadn’t spent her entire life fighting for her right to be a person. As if she didn’t matter, never mattered.

And then it hits me – hard, like I’ve been kicked off a cliff. A side effect. To my stepmother’s advantage.

The man asked if she intended it.

‘I spoke to Nuwanza,’ he’s saying. ‘His victory against Azzi-Ḫayaša wasn’t decisive, and he will need to follow it up with another campaign as soon as the winter is over. If the king –’

I push the door open.

Both of them jump, and the man – Kantuzili, one of my generals – reaches down instinctively to his waist. He barely relaxes when he recognises me. My stepmother, sitting opposite him with her wrists on her knees, is the first to speak.

‘Are you looking for something, boy?’

‘What did you do to my wife?’

My voice is less firm than I’d wanted it to be. My stepmother lowers her eyebrows.

‘I never laid a finger on her. Don’t accuse me without knowing what you’re talking about.’

‘What did you do to her?’

‘Nothing. Pull yourself together, boy, you –’

‘What did you do to her?’

It comes as a shout this time. My stepmother bristles, but stays calm. That, more than anything, is what tips the scales. Before I know it, I’m rushing forward, and she’s standing up and backing away, and I’m gripping her and pushing her against the wall. My hand is at her throat. For the first time in my life, I see unmistakable fear in her eyes. I toughen my hold. I want to kill her, watch her die like I watched Gaššulawiya die. Maybe that will take away some of the pain.

Then a hand is on my shoulder, and Kantuzili rips me away. I struggle with him, beating him back with fists and elbows and knees, but he’s more practised at fighting than I am, and with a knock to my jaw he makes me collapse backwards. By the time I get up he’s drawn his sword. He points it at my throat but doesn’t swing it in. He glances at my stepmother. She’s still standing against the wall, rubbing her throat, gulping for air. She shakes her head.

‘How dare you lay hands on me,’ she wheezes.

I try to take a step towards her. Kantuzili’s blade digs into my skin.

‘What did you do to Gaššulawiya?’ I say again.

‘I did nothing to her. I spent months continually praying for the kingdom. I prayed the gods to be just, and they seized her. What does that say about the matter, boy?’

Nausea rises up from my stomach into my throat. I force it down.

‘She wasn’t at fault for anything. She never did a bad thing.’

‘I doubt the gods appreciate Gašga war captives being set up as Great Queen.’

‘She was sent by the deity of Gašula.’

‘She was cursed with the hand of a ghost.’

‘And you think that was reason enough for her to die?’ My voice breaks. ‘She fought it her entire life. It was becoming better. If she’d been meant to die from the beginning, why…’ The realisation washes over me like cold water. ‘Why would it only have become worse now?’

I try to step forward again. Kantuzili presses his blade into my throat, pushing me back, hard enough that I feel a warm line trickle down to my collar. His brow is furrowed, but his eyes hold mine without flinching. I have to get out of here. I can’t let myself think of anything else. I move back against the shelves of archived tablets. My heels bump against the wood.

‘Enough,’ my stepmother says. ‘You’re acting like a child whose favourite toy was taken away. Be a man and think –’

I grab a tablet and hurl it at Kantuzili’s head. It shatters on impact, and the man crumples down. I lunge at his sword. As I close my fist around it, Kantuzili kicks me back, only half conscious, blood dripping down his forehead, and tries to wrench the weapon away. I grasp it tighter. Distantly, I’m aware of footsteps somewhere down the corridor. My heart leaps into my mouth. I take in a gasp of air.

‘Help,’ I manage to shout before Kantuzili punches me in the temple. He wrestles me off him and staggers to his feet, the sword in his hand. He points it at me before I can get close. His gaze jumps to my stepmother.

‘Kill him,’ she states.

A look of horror crosses Kantuzili’s face.

‘I can’t kill the king with my own –’

‘He will kill me if you don’t!’

His eyes flit between the two of us. It’s only a moment of hesitation, but it feels endless; then everything happens at once. A man – a scribe – bursts into the room. Kantuzili pulls the sword away from me. I run at him. His eyes still darting from me to my stepmother, he lifts the blade and rams it into his neck, and I seize the hilt but it’s too late, Kantuzili falls down, and his weight pulls me down with him. I tug the sword out of him and blood gushes onto the floor. I try not to stare at it. I direct the sword at my stepmother’s face and then I freeze, we all freeze, the king, the scribe and the Tawananna, as Kantuzili chokes on his blood between us.

‘Call the guards,’ I tell the scribe. ‘Have her brought to her apartments and locked in.’

My stepmother raises her head.

‘Don’t you presume –’

‘Shut up.’ I don’t even realise I’ve said it out loud until I see her eyes widen. She’ll never forgive me for this, I think dimly. But I’m too numb to care. ‘For once in your life. Please.’

She narrows her eyes at me, and the air between us grows thick with tension. But until the guards lead her away, she’s quiet.

*

It only takes a few days – two, maybe three – for my suspicions to be confirmed. Witnesses come forward in front of the assembly and describe how my stepmother sent gold and silver from the palace to Karduniaš, to the Stone House and to the people, hoping to turn them away from me towards her, and how she shut up the mouths of those who knew it. A priest tells us she sent Gaššulawiya to pray to the ancestors the day I returned; I feel dizzy when I hear it. But it’s only when I receive the results of the oracles I ordered that it truly sinks into me. I read the words over and over again as my breath grows thin. My stepmother cursed me and my family to Išḫara of Aštata. She spoke evil words to my wife, until she grew sick and died. My stepmother killed Gaššulawiya.

My stepmother killed Gaššulawiya.

That’s the first time I cry.

Once the tears start coming, I can’t hold them at bay, so I put the tablet back in the hands of the man who brought it to me and turn away, close the door to my bedchamber, and press my palms to my eyes. I should have known it. I should have known it ever since the matter of the silver of Aštata. This wasn’t only my stepmother’s fault. I let it happen.

The tears leak out from under my hands, soaking my face. I was given the weight of a kingdom to bear, and I couldn’t even protect my own wife when she needed me.

I suck in a breath. The gods have shown me my sin; now I have to make it right. It’s time to put away my weakness and prove to them who I am. They want their land to be ruled in bloodshed. Fine. If that’s the price to pay to save whatever is left now that Gaššulawiya is gone – my children, my people – I will pay it. Maybe the Moongod will kill me for it. I don’t care anymore. I need to bring this all to an end.

I will kill my stepmother, as the oracle states I should, as she deserves. Blood for blood. A life for a life. Revenge for this unutterable ache she set in my soul.

Somehow, the thought only makes my sobs worse, and I sink to the floor and squeeze my temples between my fists until it hurts too much to think at all.

My stepmother is brought to trial the next day. She stands before the assembly in a bright purple dress and meets the men’s eyes one by one, as if she was here to judge them, not them to judge her. Her lips curl when she looks at me. I adjust my hand on the sceptre. It will be over soon.

‘Tawananna Malnigal,’ I say, ‘the gods have declared that you are guilty of murder.’ My voice wavers as I speak, but I make myself continue. ‘May the Sungod of Heaven bear witness to my judgement.’

She keeps her head high.

‘May the Sungod of Heaven bear witness to your actions,’ she replies. ‘He will give this kingdom the justice it deserves.’

The arrogance in her voice burrows into me. Before I know it, I’m standing up. I stride forward until I’m just an arm’s length away from her.

‘I will give it the justice it deserves. Whatever the omen predicted. Whatever burdens the gods place on me. Whatever you think. I will rule this land with my heart and soul, and I will be enough.’

‘You were never enough and you know it. Why should that change now?’ She looks me up and down, her lips pursed. ‘Look at you. You’re as skinny as a child from the streets, and paler than your Gašga swine’s Moongod.’

My nails bite into my palms. ‘Don’t ever call her that again.’

‘You can’t deny she was a Gašga. A fitting bride for a boy like you.’

‘Don’t.’ My voice is only a whisper now. I step closer to her, fighting back the tears pricking at my eyes, ignoring the dozens of men watching us. ‘Her name was Gaššulawiya, and she was a person. She was brave, and selfless, and wanted to be free. She was the mother of my children and the love of my heart.’ I falter. ‘And you killed her.’

‘I prayed the gods to do what it would take to save the kingdom.’

‘There were other ways to save it.’ The tears are rolling down my cheeks now. I can hear Gaššulawiya’s words in my memory, clear as water. ‘We will find a way,’ she says, and my own voice adds: ‘Maybe that’s why they made us.’ Blood doesn’t have to be our currency. There are better things we can offer up to sway the gods.

But too much is at stake to bargain on mercy now. I hold out my sceptre.

‘Tawananna Malnigal,’ I say, ‘you killed my wife. Because of this, it was ordained by oracle that I should set you down from your office, and have you put to death.’

She presses her lips against each other until they’re white, but says nothing. I take in a deep breath. Just one more sentence and it will be done. The gods will be satisfied. Gaššulawiya will be avenged.

I can’t say it.

I stand there as silence chokes the room, my sceptre in the air, and I close my eyes. I can’t let this go unpunished. This is what the gods ordered. They will know I’m weak if I don’t do it, send more plagues and more revolts until we have no kingdom left. Mercy won’t save us. I need to be ruthless, like my ancestors – like my father.

No.

I open my eyes. My lashes are stiff with salt.

‘I would have watched you die,’ I tell my stepmother. ‘I would have done it gladly. But that’s not what Gaššulawiya fought for. That’s not who I am.’ I lower the sceptre. ‘Before the Sungod of Heaven, I set you down from the palace. But you will live.’

Mutters and stifled gasps rise from the assembly. My stepmother’s mouth curves into a sneer.

‘The gods will not judge you favourably for this, boy.’

‘Then I will stand before them myself and argue that this is right. Let them tell me my sins, and I will make restitution for them until the last day of my life. But kindness is not a sin. I will show them that.’

I turn on my heels and, without stopping to look back, I gesture to the door guards to lead her away. I wipe my face as I walk. I’d thought I’d cried all I had yesterday, and yet here I am again. I rub my eyes harder.

Despite my blurry sight, I manage to find my way to my children’s bedchamber, and I take a moment to compose myself before stepping through the door. They’re playing quieter than usual, sitting on the floor all four of them together. Ḫalpašulupi stands up when he sees me.

‘Is it finished?’ he asks. ‘Did you punish her?’

I don’t know when, if ever, it will be finished, I think – but I don’t say it. I kneel down in front of him.

‘Yes,’ I tell him, ‘I sent her away. She won’t be able to hurt us again.’

Muwatalli looks down, twisting his thumbs.

‘She still hurt us though.’

‘I know.’ It’s painful just to say it. I reach out a hand to my son, and he crawls over to bury himself against me. One by one, the others follow. ‘We can’t unmake it. But we can make what’s left into something better.’

‘How?’ Maššanauzzi asks.

I cup her little face in my hand and lift it so we’re looking at each other. I can see some of Gaššulawiya in her dark eyebrows, her determined nose. My heart squeezes to notice it. Doing my best to breathe past the ache, I kiss my daughter’s forehead.

‘We do just what you told me before I left,’ I say. ‘We be good.’

* * *

_Tuppieš 9 appāi._

Nine tablets, complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The general Kantuzili only appears once in Muršili's Annals, and his eventual fate is unknown. His role and death in this story are entirely my own creation.
> 
> After Gaššulawiya's death, Muršili spent the rest of the winter in Ankuwa, quite possibly composing his prayers on the deposition of his stepmother, and on the grief he was still experiencing, while there. The following year, he brought the war with Azzi-Ḫayaša to an end, celebrated the sexennial festival, then stayed off the battlefield for a whole year. The rest of his reign was marked by the plague, which did eventually subside, as well as more military successes, and a large production of literary texts (including two sets of Annals, and at least five Plague Prayers). Muršili died in his late forties, after a difficult but ultimately successful life. The last words of his Complete Annals were: ‘It is not finished.’
> 
> Thank you for reading ^_^


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